War and Peace (Vintage Classics)

WAR AND PEACE LEO TOLSTOY Translated from the Russian by

Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky Translation copyright © 2007 ISBN-13: 9780307266934

Introduction If the world could write by itself, it would write like Tolstoy. — ISAAC BABEL War and Peace is the most famous and at the same time the most daunting of Russian novels, as vast as Russia itself and as long to cross from one end to the other. Yet if one makes the journey, the sights seen and the people met on the way mark one's life forever. The book is set in the period of the Napoleonic wars (1805-1812) and tells of the interweaving of historical events with the private lives of two very different families of the Russian nobility—the severe Bolkonskys and the easygoing Rostovs—and of a singular man, reminiscent of the author himself—Count Pierre Bezukhov. It embodies the national myth of “Russia's glorious period,” as Tolstoy himself called it, in the confrontation of the emperor Napoleon and Field Marshal Kutuzov, and at the same time it challenges that myth and all such myths through the vivid portrayal of the fates of countless ordinary people of the period, men and women, young and old, French as well as Russian, and through the author's own passionate questioning of the truth of history. Tolstoy wrote that he “spent five years of ceaseless and exclusive labor, under the best conditions of life,” working on War and Peace. Those were the years from 1863 to 1868. He was thirty-five when he began. The year before, he had married Sofya Behrs, the daughter of a Moscow doctor, who was eighteen, and they had moved permanently to his estate at Yasnaya Polyana, in Tula province, a hundred and twenty miles south of Moscow. She bore him four children while he worked on the book, was his first reader (or listener), and was in part the model for his heroine, Natasha Rostov. The orderliness and routine of family life and estate management were not only the best conditions for work, they were also new conditions for Tolstoy. His mother had died when he was two. His father had moved to Moscow with the children in 1830, but died himself seven years later, and the children were eventually taken to Kazan by their aunt. Tolstoy entered Kazan University in 1844 but never graduated; his later attempts to pass examinations at Petersburg University also led to nothing. In 1851, after several years of idle and dissipated life in Moscow and Petersburg, he visited the Caucasus with his brother Nikolai, who was in the army, and there took part in a raid on a Chechen village, which he described a year later in a story entitled “The Raid,” his first attempt to capture the actuality of warfare in words. His experiences in the Caucasus were also reflected in his novel The Cossacks, which he began writing in 1853 but finished only nine years later, and in his very last piece of fiction, the superb short novel Hadji Murad, completed in 1904 but published only posthumously. In 1852, he joined the army as a noncommissioned officer and served in Wallachia. Two years later he was promoted to ensign and was transferred at his own request to the Crimea, where he fought in the Crimean War and was present at the siege of Sevastopol. His Sevastopol Sketches, which were published in 1855, made him famous in Petersburg social and literary circles. They were a second and fuller attempt at a true depiction of war. During his army years, Tolstoy lived like a typical young Russian officer, drinking, gambling, and womanizing. In 1854 he lost the family house in Yas-naya Polyana at cards, and it was dismantled and moved some twenty miles away, leaving only a foundation stone on which Tolstoy later had carved: HERE STOOD THE HOUSE IN WHICH L. N. TOLSTOY WAS BORN. In 1856 he was promoted to lieutenant but resigned his commission and returned to the estate, where he lived in one of the surviving wings of the house and began to occupy himself with management and the education of the peasant children. By then, besides the

works I have already mentioned, he had also published the semi-fictional trilogy Childhood, Boyhood, and Youth. The years from 1857 to 1862 were a time of restlessness and seeking for Tolstoy. He had left Petersburg, disgusted by the literary life there. He made two trips abroad. During the first, in 1857, he forced himself to witness a public execution in Paris, and the sight shook him so deeply that he vowed he would never again serve any government. At the beginning of the second trip, in September 1860, he visited his beloved brother Nikolai, who was dying of tuberculosis in the southern French town of Hyères. The death and burial of his brother were, he said, “the strongest impression in my life.” In 1861 he returned to Yasnaya Polyana, where he began work on a novel about the Decembrists, a group of young aristocrats and officers who, at the death of the emperor Alexander I in December 1815, rose up in the name of constitutional monarchy, were arrested and either executed or sent to Siberia. This novel would eventually become War and Peace. Tolstoy himself later described the process of its transformation. At first he had wanted to write about a Decembrist on his return from Siberia in 1856, when the exiles were pardoned by Alexander II. In preparation for that, he went back to 1825, the year of the uprising itself, and from there to the childhood and youth of his hero and the others who took part in it. That brought him to the war of 1812, with which he became fascinated, and since those events were directly linked to events of 1805, it was there that he decided to begin. The original title, in the serial publication of the book, was The Year 1805, it was only in 1867 that he changed it to War and Peace, which he may have borrowed from a work by the French socialist thinker Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, whom he had met in Brussels during his second trip abroad. All that remains of the Decembrists in the final version are some slight hints about the futures of Pierre Bezukhov and of Prince Andrei Bolkonsky's son Xikolenka. The book grew organically as Tolstoy worked on it. In 1865, partly under the influence of Stendhal's Charterhouse of Parma, he revised the battle scenes he had already written and added new ones, including one of the most important, the description of the battle of Schöngraben. Coming across a collection of Masonic texts in the library of the Rumyantsev Museum, he became interested and decided to make Pierre Bezukhov a Mason. He studied the people of Moscow at the theaters, in the clubs, in the streets, looking for the types he needed. A great many of his fictional characters, if not all of them, had real-life models. The old Prince Bolkonsky and the old Count Rostov were drawn from Tolstoy's grandfathers, Nikolai Rostov and Princess Marya from his parents, Sonya from one of his aunts. The Rostov estate, Otradnoe, is a reflection of Yasnaya Polyana. Tolstoy spent two days on the battlefield of Borodino and made his own map of the disposition of forces, correcting the maps of the historians. He collected a whole library of materials on the Napoleonic wars, many bits of which also found their way into the fabric of the book. His memory for historical minutiae was prodigious. But above all, there is the profusion and precision of sensual detail that brings the world of War and Peace so vividly to life. In his autobiographical sketch, People and Situations (1956), Pasternak wrote of Tolstoy: All his life, at every moment, he possessed the faculty of seeing phenomena in the detached finality of each separate instant, in perfectly distinct outline, as we see only on rare occasions, in childhood, or on the crest of an all-renewing happiness, or in the triumph of a great spiritual victory. To see things like that, our eye must be directed by passion. For it is passion that by its flash illuminates an object, intensifying its appearance. Such passion, the passion of creative contemplation, Tolstoy constantly carried within him. It was precisely in its light that he saw everything in its pristine freshness, in a new way, as if for the first time. The authenticity of what he saw differs so much from what we are used to that it may appear strange to us. But Tolstoy was not seeking that 3

Introduction

strangeness, was not pursuing it as a goal, still less did he apply it to his works as a literary method. I was struck, while working on the translation of War and Peace, by the impression that I was translating two books at the same time. Not two books in alternation, as one might expect from the title, but two books simultaneously. One is a very deliberate and self-conscious work, expressive of the out-size personality of its author, who is everywhere present, selecting and manipulating events, and making his own absolute pronouncements on them: “On the twelfth of June, the forces of Western Europe crossed the borders of Russia, and war began—that is, an event took place contrary to human reason and to the whole of human nature.” It is a work full of provocation and irony, and written in what might be called Tolstoy's signature style, with broad and elaborately developed rhetorical devices—periodic structure, emphatic repetitions, epic similes. The other is an account of all that is most real and ordinary in life, all that is most fragile and therefore most precious, all that eludes formulation, that is not subject to absolute pronouncements, that is so mercurial that it can hardly be reflected upon, and can be grasped only by a rare quality of attention and self-effacement. And it is written in a style that reaches the expressive minimum of a sentence like Kâpli kâpali, “Drops dripped”—which makes silence itself audible. It seems to me that the incomparable experience of reading War and Peace comes from the shining of the one work through the other—an effect achieved by artistic means of an unusual sort. The first thing a reader today must overcome is the notion of War and Peace as a classic, the greatest of novels, and the model of what a novel should be. In 1954, Bertolt Brecht wrote a note on “Classical Status as an Inhibiting Factor” that puts the question nicely. “What gets lost,” he says of the bestowing of classical status on a work (he is speaking of works for the theater), “is the classic's original freshness, the element of surprise ... of newness, of productive stimulus that is the hallmark of such works. The passionate quality of a great masterpiece is replaced by stage temperament, and where the classics are full of fighting spirit, here the lessons taught the audience are tame and cozy and fail to grip.” The first readers of War and Peace were certainly surprised, but often also bewildered and even dismayed by the book. They found it hard to identify the main characters, to discover anything like a plot, to see any connection between episodes, to understand the sudden leaps from fiction to history, from narration to philosophizing. There seemed to be no focus, no artistic unity to the work, no real beginning, and no resolution. It was as if the sheer mass of detail overwhelmed any design Tolstoy might have tried to impose on it. Such observations were made by Russian critics, including Tolstoy's great admirer, Ivan Turgenev, and when the book became known in translation, they were repeated by Flaubert and by Henry James, who famously described War and Peace as a “large loose baggy monster.” Another cause of surprise for its first readers was the language of War and Peace. The book opens in French—not with a few words of French (as in those English versions that do not eliminate the French altogether), but with a whole paragraph of French, with only a few phrases of Russian at the end. This mixing of French and Russian goes on for another five chapters or more, and occurs frequently throughout the rest of the book. There are also some long letters entirely in French, as well as official dispatches, and quotations from the French historian Adolphe Thiers. There are passages in German as well. For all of them Tolstoy supplied his own translations in footnotes, as we do. But that made the question still more problematic, because Tolstoy's translations are occasionally inaccurate, perhaps deliberately so. The amount of French in the text is smaller than some early critics asserted—not a third, but only about two percent. But there is also a great deal of gallicized Russian, either implying that the speaker is speaking in French, or showing that 4

upper-class ladies like Julie Karagin are unable to write correctly in their own language. And there are other heterogeneous elements in the composition: Tolstoy's map and commentary on the battlefield of Borodino, and his own interpolated essays, which repeatedly disrupt the fictional continuum. The formal structure of War and Peace and the texture of its prose are indeed strange. Those who did not simply declare the book a failure, dismissing the newness, the “passionate quality” and “fighting spirit” of what Tolstoy was doing as artistic helplessness and naïveté, often said that it succeeded in spite of its artistic flaws. But that is a false distinction. War and Peace is a work of art, and if it succeeds, it cannot be in spite of its formal deficiencies, but only because Tolstoy created a new form that was adequate to his vision. It is equally mistaken to go to the other extreme and declare, as more recent critics have done, that, far from being a magnificent failure, War and Peace is a masterpiece of nineteenth-century realism, simple and artless, a direct transcription of life. Tolstoy was well aware of the perplexities his book caused and addressed them in an article (included here as an appendix) entitled “A Few Words Apropos of the Book War and Peace,” published in the magazine Russian Archive in 1868, before the final parts of the book had appeared in print. “What is War and Peace}” he asked. It is not a novel, still less an epic poem, still less a historical chronicle. War and Peace is what the author wanted and was able to express, in the form in which it is expressed. Such a declaration of the author's disregard of the conventional forms of artistic prose works might seem presumptuous, if it were premeditated and if it had no previous examples. The history of Russian literature since Pushkin's time not only provides many examples of such departure from European forms, but does not offer even one example to the contrary. From Gogol's Dead Souls to Dostoevsky's Dead House, there is not a single work of artistic prose of the modern period of Russian literature, rising slightly above mediocrity, that would fit perfectly into the form of the novel, the epic, or the story. Two things in this passage are especially characteristic of Tolstoy: first, the negative definition of the genre; and second, the assertion that his departure from artistic convention was not premeditated. Both might be taken as disingenuous, but I do not think they are. Tolstoy was trying to express something which, to his mind, had never been expressed before, and which therefore required a new form that could only define itself as he worked. By excluding the known forms of extended narrative, he leaves an empty place in which an as yet unknown form, indefinable and unnameable, may appear. (He uses the same negative method throughout War and Peace itself.) But this procedure was not premeditated—that is, as Pasternak rightly said, it was not a literary method, not a play with form for its own sake in the modernist sense. He found it necessary for the task he had set himself. What was that task? What was it that Tolstoy “wanted to express” in his book, which he deliberately does not call a novel? Boris de Schloezer, a fine critic and philosopher, wrote in the preface to his French translation of War and Peace (1960) that Tolstoy's one aim, from the beginning, was “to speak the truth” as perceived by his eye and his conscience. “All the forces of his imagination, his power of evocation and expression, converge on that one single goal. Outside any other religious or moral considerations, Tolstoy when he writes obeys one imperative, which is the foundation of what one might call his literary ethic. That imperative is not imposed on the artist by the moralist, it is the voice of the artist himself.” As early as the sketch “Sevastopol in May” of 1855, Tolstoy had asserted, “My hero is truth.” In War and Peace he wanted to speak the truth about a certain period of Russian life—the period of the Napoleonic wars of 1805 to 1812. He wanted to say, not how that period could be made to appear in a beautiful lie, an entertaining or instructive story, a historical narrative, but how it was. He wanted to capture in words 5

Introduction

what happened the way it happened. But how does happening happen? How can words express it without falsifying it? How can one capture the past once it is past? These were questions that Tolstoy constantly brooded on. He had already posed them for himself in 1851, in his very first literary work, the fragment “A History of Yesterday.” The composition of War and Peace was his fullest response to them. Poète et non honnête homme, wrote Pascal, meaning that a poet cannot be an honest man. Tolstoy fully agreed with Pascal; he tried all his life to be honnête homme et non poète. Nabokov, in his lecture notes on Anna Karenina, speaks of “Tolstoy's style with its readiness to admit any robust awkwardness if that is the shortest way to sense.” Yet Tolstoy found that the truth could not be approached directly, that every attempt at direct expression became a simplification and therefore a lie, and that the “shortest way to sense” was rather long and indirect. He was acutely aware of the inadequacy of all human means of speaking the truth, but his artistic intuition told him that those means might be composed in such a way as to allow the truth to appear. Against his will, he found that to be an honest man he had to be a poet. In the fifth section of “A Few Words,” Tolstoy freely embraces that role, discussing the differences between the historian and the artist. “A historian and an artist, describing a historical epoch, have two completely different objects ... For a historian, considering the contribution rendered by some person towards a certain goal, there are heroes; for the artist, considering the correspondence of this person to all sides of life, there cannot and should not be any heroes, but there should be people.” And further on: “A historian has to do with the results of an event, the artist with the fact of the event.” And again: “The difference between the results obtained is explained by the sources from which the two draw their information. For the historian (we continue the example of a battle), the main source is the reports of individual commanders and the commander in chief. The artist can draw nothing from such sources, they tell him nothing, explain nothing. Moreover, the artist turns away from them, finding in them a necessary falsehood.” Neither here nor elsewhere, however, does Tolstoy say what sources the artist does draw from. To compound the problem, he says at the end of the same section: “But the artist should not forget that the notion of historical figures and events formed among people is based not on fantasy, but on historical documents, insofar as historians have been able to amass them; and therefore, while understanding and presenting these figures and events differently, the artist ought to be guided, like the historian, by historical materials.” The difference lies not in the figures and events that are seen, but in the way of seeing them: the artist sees not heroes but people, not results but facts, and considers a person not in terms of a goal, but “in correspondence to all sides of life”—with what Pasternak calls “the passion of creative contemplation,” which Tolstoy wisely avoids defining. This leads to a crucial if paradoxical reversal: the most real and even, in Tolstoy's sense, historical figures in War and Peace turn out to be the fictional ones; and the most unreal, the most insubstantial and futile, the historical ones.* Tolstoy undermines the idea of significant action, though it was the foundation of virtually all narrative before him. He does not say that all action is insignificant, but that the only significant actions are the insignificant ones, whose meaning lies elsewhere, not in the public space but in absolute solitude. For Prince Andrei there is something in the infinite sky above him, but it is not a general idea, and he is unable to communicate it to anyone else. In her comparison of Homer and Tolstoy (On the Iliad, translated by Mary McCarthy, New York, 1947), Rachel Bespaloff wrote: “Great common truths are disclosed to man only when he is alone: they are the revelation made by solitude in the thick of collective action.” Tolstoy grants this * The great exception to this rule is Field Marshal Kutuzov, who for Tolstoy is “historical” in both senses of the word and thus becomes a touchstone figure in the book.

6

intimate but immense reality to each of his major characters, and to many of the minor ones (who then cease to be minor). Yet there is nothing very remarkable about these characters. Turgenev complained that they were all mediocrities, and in a sense he was right. They are ordinary men and women. Tolstoy was aware of that; it was what he intended. As Rachel Bespaloff observed: “Tolstoy's universe, like Homer's, is what our own is from moment to moment. We don't step into it; we are there.”

A few words about translation and this translation. It is often said that a good translation is one that “does not feel like a translation,” one that reads “smoothly” in “idiomatic” English. But who determines the standard of the idiomatic, and why should it be applied to something so idiolectic as a great work of literature? Is Melville idiomatic? Is Faulkner? Is Beckett? Those who raise the question of the “idiomatic” in translation do not seem to realize that they are imposing their own, often very narrow, limits on the original. A translator who turns a great original into a patchwork of ready-made “contemporary” phrases, with no regard for its particular tone, rhythm, or character, and claims that that is “how Tolstoy would have written today in English,” betrays both English and Tolstoy. Translation is not the transfer of a detachable “meaning” from one language to another, for the simple reason that in literature there is no meaning detachable from the words that express it. Translation is a dialogue between two languages. It occurs in a space between two languages, and most often between two historical moments. Much of the real value of translation as an art comes from that unique situation. It is not exclusively the language of arrival or the time of the translator and reader that should be privileged. We all know, in the case of War and Peace, that we are reading a nineteenth-century Russian novel. That fact allows the twenty-first century translator a different range of possibilities than may exist for a twenty-first century writer. It allows for the enrichment of the translator's own language, rather than the imposition of his language on the original. To move from that fertile ground towards either extreme—that is, towards interlinear literalness or total accommodation to the new language—is to lose the possibilities that exist only in the space between two times and languages. Tolstoy's prose has been much praised and much criticized. He scorned fine writers, calling them “hairdressers,” yet we know from the many drafts he preserved that he constantly worked over his texts, revising and refining them, bringing them closer to what he wanted to express. Tolstoy's prose is an artistic medium; it is all of a piece; it is not good or bad Russian prose, it is Tolstoyan prose. What the translator should seek in his own language is the equivalent of that specific artistic medium. He must have the freedom in his own language to be faithful to the original. In Tolstoy: A Critical Introduction (Cambridge, 1969), R. H. Christian says: “From the point of view of language and style, Tolstoy has been better served by his translators than many of his fellow-countrymen. Nevertheless, standards fall a long way short of perfection. Clumsiness and simplesse apart, no English version of War and Peace has succeeded in conveying the power, balance, rhythm and above all the repetitiveness of the original. Perhaps it is repetition which is the most characteristic single feature of Tolstoy's prose style,” He illustrates his point with two passages, the second of which, in our translation, reads as follows (italics added): ... thought Prince Andrei, waiting among many significant and insignificant persons in Count Arakcheev's anteroom. During his service, mostly as an adjutant, Prince Andrei had seen many anterooms of significant persons, and the differing characters of these anterooms were very clear to him. Count Arakcheev's

7

Introduction

anteroom had a completely special character. The insignificant persons waiting in line for an audience in Count Arakcheev's anteroom... Without mentioning the parallel play on “significant and insignificant persons,” Christian notes that the Russian word priémnaya (“anteroom”) recurs five times in as many lines, and that the Maude translation (1927) glosses over that fact by omitting the word once and using three different words for the rest. I will add that in Ann Dunnigan's translation (1968) the repetitions are treated in exactly the same way as in the Maudes'; that Anthony Briggs, in his 2005 version, omits the repeated word twice and varies it twice; while Constance Garnett (1904) omits it once, but otherwise keeps the repetitions. This passage is a fairly restrained example of what I have called Tolstoy's “signature style,” but it does illustrate how the balance and rhythm of his prose depend on repetition. These qualities are lost when the general principle of avoiding repetitions is mechanically applied to it. Tolstoy also had a fondness for larger rhetorical Structures based on repeated triads of nouns, verbs, adjectives, and so on. We have made it a point to keep his repetitions, as well as other devices of formal rhetoric (for instance, chiasmus) that Tolstoy consciously used and that his translators have often ignored. Tolstoy once boasted that in writing War and Peace he had used every rhetorical device of the old Latin grammarians, which means they are not there by chance. The other extreme of Tolstoy's style is exemplified by the short sentence (the shortest in War and Peace) that I have already quoted: “Drops dripped.” It is the first sentence of a paragraph made up of four brief, staccato sentences, four quite ordinary observations, which acquire a lyrical intensity owing solely to the sound and rhythm of the words: Kâpli kâpali. Shyôl tikhii gôvor. Lôshadi zarzhâli i podrâlis. Khrapél ktô-to. “Drops dripped. Quiet talk went on. Horses neighed and scuffled. Someone snored.” It is a night scene, and one of the most haunting moments in the book. Other English versions translate the first sentence as “The branches dripped,” “The trees were dripping,” or, closer to the Russian, “Raindrops dripped.” They all state a fact instead of rendering a sound, which (by a stroke of translator's luck) comes out almost the same in English as in Russian. Here is another example of the same stylistic compactness, this time expressing a psychological insight rather than a sense impression. It describes the moment when Natasha, who has almost cut herself off from all life, suddenly has to take care of her griefstricken mother. Tolstoy says simply: Prosnulas lyubôv, i prosnulas zbizn. “Love awoke, and life awoke.” All that Tolstoy leaves unsaid about Natasha's inner life in these few words is implied by their very matter-of-factness, expressed in the exact rhetorical balance of the phrasing. Other English versions read: “Love was awakened, and life waked with it,” “Love awoke, and so did life,” or “When love reawakened, life reawakened.” They convey the same general meaning, but hardly the same sense as the original. A final example. Tolstoy describes children playing in their room when their mother comes in: Dyéti na stûlyakh yékbali v Moskvû i priglasili yeyô s sobôyu. “The children were riding to Moscow on chairs and invited her to go with them.” To translate the first phrase as “The children were sitting on chairs playing at driving to Moscow,” or “The children were playing at 'going to Moscow' in a carriage made of chairs,” or “The children were perched on chairs playing at driving to Moscow,” as has been done, is to miss both the rhythm and the point. The charm of Tolstoy's sentence comes from the fact that he does not explain in an adult way what the children are doing; he enters into the spirit of their game by the phrasing he uses to describe it, and the whole atmosphere of the moment is suddenly there, naïve, natural, and alive. I do not mean to suggest that Tolstoy calculated these effects. They are not “effects” at all, they are what he saw and felt, as he wanted and was able to express it. But to translate what he saw and felt, one must also translate, as far as possible, the way it is expressed. These examples will give at least an idea of how we have gone about that task. 8

We have kept all the French and German as Tolstoy had it, as well as the mixed voicings, the Gallicisms, Germanisms and implied foreign accents, as they play throughout the book. We have tried to be true to Tolstoy's rhetorical power, his sharp irony, and his astonishing delicacy. — RICHARD PEVEAR

PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS Russian names are composed of first name, patronymic (from the father's first name), and family name. Formal address requires the use of first name and patronymic; diminutives are commonly used among family and friends and are for the most part endearing, though in a certain blunt form (Katka for Kate-rina, Mitka for Dmitri) they can be rude or dismissive; the family name alone can also be used familiarly or casually, and on occasion only the patronymic is used, usually among the lower classes. In speech, the patronymic can also take a shortened form: Andreich instead of Andreevich, or Kirilych instead of Kir-illovich. The accented syllables of Russian names are long, the others very short. We also give the French forms of first names as Tolstoy uses them. Bezukhov, Count Kiri'll Vladimirovich Count Pyotr Kirillovich or Kirilych (Pierre), his son Princess Katerina Semyônovna (Catiche), his niece Bolkonsky, Prince Nikolai Andreevich or Andréich Prince Andréi Nikolâevich (Andryusha, André), his son Princess Mârya Nikolâevna (Mâsha, Mâshenka, Marie), his daughter Princess Elizaveta Kârlovna, née Meinen (Liza, Lizavéta, Lise), the “little princess,” Prince Andrei's wife Prince Nikolai Andreevich (Nikôlushka, Nikôlenka, Coco), their son Rostov, Count Ilyâ Andreevich or Andréich (Élie) Countess Natâlya (no patronymic) (Natalie), his wife Countess Vera Ilyinichna (Verûshka, Vérochka), their elder daughter Count Nikolai Ilyïch (Nikôlushka, Nikôlenka, Nikolâshka, Kolya, Nicolas, Coco), their elder son Countess Natâlya Ilyinichna (Natasha, Natalie), their younger daughter Count Pyôtr Ilyïch (Pétya, Petrusha), their younger son Sofya Alexândrovna (no family name) (Sônya, Sophie), orphaned cousin of the younger Rostovs Kurâgin, Prince Vassily Sergéevich Prince Anatole Vassilievich, his elder son Prince Ippolît Vassilievich (Hippolyte), his younger son Princess Eléna Vassilievna (Lélya, Hélène), his daughter Drubetskôy, Princess Anna Mikhâilovna Prince Boris (no patronymic) (Bôrya, Bôrenka), her son Akhrosîmov, Mârya Dmitrievna, Moscow society matron Alpâtych, Yâkov (no family name), steward of the Bolkonsky estates Bazdéev, Ôsip (Iôsif) Alexéevich, an important figure in the Masons Berg, Alphonse Kârlovich or Karlych (later called Adolf), a young Russian officer Bouriénne, Amâlia Evgénievna (Amélie, Bourriénka), Princess Marya's French companion Denisov, Vassily Dmitrich (Vâska), a hussar officer, friend of Nikolai Rostov Dôlokhov, Fyôdor Ivânovich (Fédya), a Russian officer Karâgin, Julie (no Russian first name or patronymic), a wealthy heiress Karatâev, Platon, peasant foot soldier befriended by Pierre Bezukhov Lavrushka (no patronymic or family name), Denisov's and later Nikolai Rostov's orderly Schérer, Anna Pâvlovna (Annette), hostess of an aristocratic salon in Petersburg

9

Introduction

Ti'khon (no patronymic or family name) (Tishka), old Prince Bolkonsky's personal manservant Tushin (no first name or patronymic), captain of Russian artillery at the battle of Schôngraben Willarski (no first name or patronymic), Polish count and Mason

10

Volume I Part One I “Eh bien, mon prince, Gênes and Lucques ne sont plus que des apanages, des estates, de la famille Buonaparte.1 Non, je vous préviens, que si vous ne me dites pas que nous avons la guerre, si vous vous permettez encore de pallier toutes les infamies, toutes les atrocités de cet Antichrist (ma parole, j'y crois)—je ne vous connais plus, vous n'êtes plus mon ami, vous n'êtes plus my faithful slave, comme vous dites. Well, good evening, good evening, je vois que je vous fais peur, sit down and tell me about it.”* So spoke, in July 1805, the renowned Anna Pavlovna Scherer, maid of honor and intimate of the empress Maria Feodorovna, greeting the important and high-ranking Prince Vassily, the first to arrive at her soirée. Anna Pavlovna had been coughing for several days. She had the grippe, as she put it (grippe was a new word then, used only by rare people). Little notes had been sent out that morning with a red-liveried footman, and on all of them without distinction there was written: Si vous n'avez rien de mieux à faire, Monsieur le comte (or mon prince), et si la perspective de passer la soirée chez une pauvre malade ne vous effraye pas trop, je serai charmée de vous voir chez moi entre 7 et 10 heures.†

Annette Scherer.

‡

“Dieu, quelle virulente sortie!” the entering prince replied, not ruffled in the least by such a reception. He was wearing an embroidered court uniform, stockings, shoes, and stars, and had a bright expression on his flat face. He spoke that refined French in which our grandparents not only spoke but thought, and with those quiet, patronizing intonations which are proper to a significant man who has grown old in society and at court. He went over to Anna Pavlovna, kissed her hand, presenting her with his perfumed and shining bald pate, and settled comfortably on the sofa. § “Avant tout dites-moi, comment vous allez, chère amie. Set me at ease,” he said, without changing his voice and in a tone in which, through propriety and sympathy, one could discern indifference and even mockery. “How can one be well... when one suffers morally? Is it possible to remain at ease in our time, if one has any feeling?” said Anna Pavlovna. “You'll stay the whole evening, I hope?” “And the fête at the British ambassador's? Today is Wednesday. I must put in an appearance,” said the prince. “My daughter will come to fetch me and take me there.”

Well, my prince, Genoa and Lucca are now no more than possessions, estates, of the Buonaparte family. No, I warn you, if you do not tell me we are at war, if you still allow yourself to palliate all the infamies, all the atrocities of that Antichrist (upon my word, I believe it)—I no longer know you, you are no longer my friend, you are no longer ... as you say ... I see that I'm frightening you ... † If you have nothing better to do, Monsieur the Count (or My Prince), and if the prospect of spending the evening with a poor sick woman does not frighten you too much, I shall be delighted to see you here between 7 and 10 o'clock. ‡ God, what a virulent outburst! § Before all, tell me how you are doing, my dear friend. *

Part One, I

“I thought today's fête was cancelled. Je vous avoue que toutes ces fêtes et tous ces feux * d'artifice commencent à devenir insipides.” “If they had known that you wished it, the fête would have been cancelled,” said the prince, uttering out of habit, like a wound-up clock, things that he did not even wish people to believe. “Ne me tourmentez pas. Eh bien, qu'a-t-on décidé par rapport à la dépêche de 2 † Novosikofff? Vous savez tout.” “What can I tell you?” said the prince, in a cold, bored tone. “Qu'a-t-on décidé? On a décidé que Buonaparte a brûlé ses vaisseaux, et je crois que nous sommes en train de brûler les nôtres.”‡ Prince Vassily always spoke lazily, the way an actor speaks a role in an old play. Anna Pavlovna Scherer, on the contrary, despite her forty years, was brimming with animation and impulses. Being an enthusiast had become her social position, and she sometimes became enthusiastic even when she had no wish to, so as not to deceive the expectations of people who knew her. The restrained smile that constantly played on Anna Pavlovna's face, though it did not suit her outworn features, expressed, as it does in spoiled children, a constant awareness of her dear shortcoming, which she did not wish, could not, and found no need to correct. In the midst of a conversation about political doings, Anna Pavlovna waxed vehement. “Ah, don't speak to me of Austria! Maybe I don't understand anything, but Austria 3 does not want and has never wanted war. She's betraying us. Russia alone must be the savior of Europe. Our benefactor knows his lofty calling and will be faithful to it. That is the one thing I trust in. Our kind and wonderful sovereign is faced with the greatest role in the world, and he is so virtuous and good that God will not abandon him, and he will fulfill his calling to crush the hydra of revolution, which has now become still more terrible in the person of this murderer and villain. We alone must redeem the blood of the righteous 4 one. In whom can we trust, I ask you? ... England with her commercial spirit will not and cannot understand all the loftiness of the emperor Alexander's soul. She refused to evacuate Malta,5 She wants to see, she searches for ulterior motives in our acts. What did they say to Novosiltsov? Nothing. They did not, they could not understand the self-denial of our emperor, who wants nothing for himself and everything for the good of the world. And what have they promised? Nothing. And what they did promise will not be done! Prussia has already declared that Bonaparte is invincible and that all Europe can do 6 nothing against him ... And I don't believe a single word of Hardenberg or of Haugwitz. § Cette fameuse neutralité prussienne, ce n'est qu'un piège. I trust only in God and in the lofty destiny of our dear emperor. He will save Europe! ...” She suddenly stopped with a mocking smile at her own vehemence. “I think,” the prince said, smiling, “that if they sent you instead of our dear Wintzingerode, you would take the Prussian king's consent by storm.7 You're so eloquent! Will you give me tea?”

I confess to you that all these fêtes and all these fireworks are beginning to become insipid. Don't torment me. Well, what has been decided in connection with Novosiltsov's dispatch? You know everything. ‡ What has been decided? It has been decided that Bonaparte has burned his boats, and I believe that we are in the process of burning ours. § This famous Prussian neutrality is nothing but a trap. *

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“At once. A propos,” she added, calming down again, “I'll have two very interesting men here tonight, le vicomte de Mortemart, il est allié aux Montmorency par les Rohan,* one of the best French families. He's one of the good émigrés,8 one of the real ones. And † then l'abbé Morio —do you know that profound mind? He's been received by the sovereign. Do you know him?” “Ah! I'll be very glad,” said the prince. “Tell me,” he added, as if just recalling something and with special casualness, though what he asked about was the main purpose ‡ of his visit, “is it true that l'impératrice-mère wants Baron Funke to be named first secretary in Vienna? C'est un pauvre sire, ce baron, à ce qu'il paraît.”§ Prince Vassily wanted wanted his son to be appointed to this post, which, through the empress Maria Feodorovna, had been solicited for the baron. Anna Pavlovna all but closed her eyes as a sign that neither she nor anyone else could judge of the empress's good pleasure or liking. “Monsieur le baron de Funke a été recommandé à l'impératrice-mère par sa soeur,”** she merely said in a sad, dry tone. The moment Anna Pavlovna mentioned the empress, her face suddenly presented a profound and sincere expression of devotion and respect, combined with sadness, which happened each time she referred to her exalted patroness in conversation. She said that her majesty had deigned to show Baron Funke beaucoup †† d'estime, and her eyes again clouded over with sadness. The prince lapsed into indifferent silence. Anna Pavlovna, with her courtly and feminine adroitness and ready tact, wanted both to swat the prince for daring to make such a pronouncement about a person recommended to the empress, and at the same time to comfort him. “Mais à propos de votre famille,” she said, “do you know that your daughter, since her coming out, fait les délices de tout le monde? On la trouve belle, comme le jour.”‡‡ The prince bowed in a sign of respect and gratitude. “I often think,” Anna Pavlovna went on after a moment's silence, moving closer to the prince and smiling tenderly at him, as if to show thereby that the political and social conversations were at an end and a heart-to-heart one was beginning, “I often think how unfairly life's good fortune is sometimes distributed. Why has fate given you two such nice children (excluding Anatole, your youngest, I don't like him),” she put in peremptorily, raising her eyebrows, “such lovely children? And you really value them less than anyone and are therefore unworthy of them.” And she smiled her rapturous smile. §§ “Que voulez-vous? Lavater aurait dit que je n'ai pas la bosse de la paternité,” said the prince. “Stop joking. I wanted to talk seriously with you. You know, I'm displeased with your younger son. Just between us,” her face acquired a sad look, “there was talk about him at her majesty's, and you were pitied ...” The prince did not reply, but she fell silent, looking at him significantly, waiting for a reply. Prince Vassily winced. The viscount of Mortemart, he is allied to the Montmorency family through the Rohans. The abbot Morio. ‡ The dowager empress. § He's a poor fellow, this baron, so it seems. ** Monsieur the baron of Funke was recommended to the dowager empress by her sister. †† Much respect. ‡‡ But apropos of your family ... has been the delight of everyone. They find her beautiful as the day. §§ What do you want? Lavater would have said that I lack the bump of paternity. *

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“What am I to do?” he said finally. “You know, I did all a father could for their upbringing, and they both turned out des imbéciles. Ippolit is at least an untroublesome fool, but Anatole is a troublesome one. That's the only difference,” he said, smiling more unnaturally and animatedly than usual, and with that showing especially clearly in the wrinkles that formed around his mouth something unexpectedly coarse and disagreeable. “Ah, why do such people as you have children? If you weren't a father, I'd have nothing to reproach you for,” said Anna Pavlovna, raising her eyes pensively. “Je suis votre faithful slave, et à vous seule je puis l'avouer. My children—ce sont les entraves de mon existence.* That's my cross. I explain it that way to myself. Que voulezvous? ...” He paused, expressing with a gesture his submission to cruel fate. Anna Pavlovna fell to thinking. “Have you never thought of getting your prodigal son Anatole married? They say,” she observed, “that old maids ont la manie des marriages.”† I don't feel I have that weakness yet, but I know one petite personne who is very unhappy with her father, une parente à ‡ nous, une princesse Bolkonsky.” Prince Vassily did not reply, though, with the quickness of grasp and memory characteristic of society people, he showed by a nod of the head that he had taken this information into account. “No, you know, this Anatole costs me forty thousand a year,” he said, obviously unable to restrain the melancholy course of his thoughts. He paused. “How will it be in five years, if it goes on like this? Voilà l'avantage d'être pere.§ Is she rich, this princess of yours?” “Her father is very rich and stingy. He lives in the country. You know, it's the famous 9 Prince Bolkonsky, already retired under the late emperor and nicknamed 'the King of Prussia.' He's a very intelligent man, but an odd and difficult one. ha pauvre petite est malheureuse comme les pierres.** She has a brother, Kutuzov's adjutant, the one who recently married Lise Meinen. He'll come tonight.” “Écoutez, chère Annette,” said the prince, suddenly taking his interlocutor by the hand and pulling it down for some reason. “Arrangez-moi cette affaire et je suis votre faithful †† slave à tout jamais (slafe—comme mon village headman écrit des reports: f instead of t). She's from a good family and rich. That's all I need.” And with those free and familiarly graceful movements which distinguished him, he took the maid of honor's hand, kissed it, and, having kissed it, waved the maid-of-honorly hand a little, sprawled himself in an armchair, and looked away. “Attendez,” Anna Pavlovna said, pondering. “Tonight I'll discuss it with Lise (la femme du jeune Bolkonsky). And maybe something can be settled. Ce sera dans votre famille que je ‡‡ ferai-mon apprentissage de vielle fille.”

II Anna Pavlovna's drawing room gradually began to fill up. The high nobility of Petersburg came, people quite diverse in age and character, but alike in the society they lived in. Prince Vassily's daughter, the beautiful Hélène, came to fetch her father and go I am your . . . and to you alone can I confess it ... they are the fetters of my existence. Have a mania for marriages. ‡ Little person ... a relation of ours, a princess Bolkonsky. § There's the advantage of being a father. ** The poor little thing is as unhappy as can be. †† Listen, dear Annette . . . Arrange this business for me and I am your . . . forever (. . . as my . . . writes me in ...). ‡‡ Wait ... Liza (the wife of young Bolkonsky) ... It will be in your family that I serve my apprenticeship as an old maid. *

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with him to the fête at the ambassador's. She was wearing a ball gown with a monogram. The young little princess Bolkonsky, known as la femme la plus séduisante de Pétersbourg,* Pétersbourg,* also came; married the previous winter, she did not go into high society now for reason of her pregnancy, but did still go to small soirées. Prince Ippolit, Prince Vassily's son, came with Mortemart, whom he introduced; the abbé Morio also came, and many others. † “Have you seen yet” or “have you made the acquaintance of ma tante?” Anna Pavlovna said to the arriving guests, and led them quite seriously to a little old lady in high ribbons, who had come sailing out of the next room as soon as the guests began to arrive, called them by name, slowly shifting her gaze from the guest to ma tante, and then walked away. All the guests performed the ritual of greeting the totally unknown, totally uninteresting and unnecessary aunt. With sad, solemn sympathy, Anna Pavlovna followed their greetings, silently approving of them. To each of them ma tante spoke in the same expressions about his health, her own health, and the health of her majesty, which, thank God, was better that day. All those who went up to her, showing no haste for propriety's sake, left the little old lady with a feeling of relief after the fulfillment of a heavy obligation, never to approach her again all evening. The young princess Bolkonsky came with handwork in a gold-embroidered velvet bag. Her pretty upper lip with its barely visible black mustache was too short for her teeth, but the more sweetly did it open and still more sweetly did it sometimes stretch and close on the lower one. As happens with perfectly attractive women, her flaw—a short lip and half-opened mouth—seemed her special, personal beauty. Everyone felt cheerful looking at this pretty future mother full of health and liveliness, who bore her condition so easily. To old men and to bored, morose young ones it seemed that they themselves came to resemble her, having been with her and spoken with her for a time. Anyone who talked with her and saw her bright little smile at every word and her gleaming white teeth, which showed constantly, thought himself especially amiable that day. And that is what each of them thought. The little princess, waddling, went around the table with small, quick steps, her bag of handwork hanging on her arm, and, cheerfully straightening her dress, sat down on the sofa near the silver samovar, looking as though every-thing she did was a partie de plaisir‡ plaisir‡ for her and for everyone around her. § “J'ai apporté mon ouvrage,” she said, unclasping her reticule and addressing them all all together. “Look, Annette, ne me jouez pas un mauvais tour” she turned to the hostess. “Vouz ** m'avez écrit que c'était une toute petite soirée; voyez comme je suis attifée.” And she spread her arms to show her elegant gray, lace-trimmed dress, tied slightly below the breasts with a broad ribbon. “Soyez tranquille, Lise, vous serez toujours la plus jolie,”†† Anna Pavlovna replied. “Vous savez, mon mari m'abandonne,” she went on in the same tone, turning to a * general, “il va se faire tuer. Dites moi, pourquoi cette vilaine guerre?” she said to Prince

The most seductive woman of Petersburg. My aunt. ‡ Pleasure party. § I've brought my work. ** Don't play a dirty trick on me ... You wrote me that it was a very small soirée; look how I'm gotten up. †† Don't worry, Liza, you'll always be the prettiest. *

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Vassily and, not waiting for an answer, turned to Prince Vassily's daughter, the beautiful Hélène. † “Quelle délicieuse personne, que cette petite princesse!” Prince Vassily said to Anna Pavlovna. Soon after the little princess came a massive, fat young man with a cropped head, in spectacles, light-colored trousers of the latest fashion, a high jabot, and a brown tailcoat. This fat young man was the illegitimate son of a famous courtier from Catherine's time, Count Bezukhov, who was now dying in Moscow. He did not serve anywhere yet, he had only just arrived from abroad, where he had been educated, and this was his first time in society. Anna Pavlovna greeted him with a nod reserved for people of the lowest hierarchy in her salon. But, despite this greeting of the lowest sort, at the sight of the entering Pierre uneasiness and fear showed in Anna Pavlovna's face, like that expressed at the sight of something all too enormous and unsuited to the place. Though Pierre was indeed somewhat larger than the other men in the room, this fear could have referred only to the intelligent and at the same time shy, observant, and natural gaze which distinguished him from everyone else in that drawing room. “C'est bien aimable à vous, monsieur Pierre, d'être venu voir une pauvre malade,”‡ Anna Pavlovna said to him, exchanging fearful looks with the aunt, to whom she was bringing him. Pierre burbled something incomprehensible and went on searching for something with his eyes. He smiled joyfully, merrily, bowed to the little princess as to a close acquaintance, and went up to the aunt. Anna Pavlovna's fear was not in vain, because Pierre, without hearing out the aunt's talk about her majesty's health, walked away from her. The frightened Anna Pavlovna stopped him with the words: “You don't know the abbé Morio? He's a very interesting man ...” she said. “Yes, I've heard about his plan for eternal peace,11 and it's very interesting, but hardly possible...” “You think so? ...” said Anna Pavlovna, in order to say something, and again turned to her duties as mistress of the house, but Pierre committed the reverse discourtesy. Earlier he had walked away without hearing out a lady who was talking to him; now he held with his conversation a lady who needed to leave him. Lowering his head and spreading his big feet, he began to explain to Anna Pavlovna why he thought that the abbé's plan was a chimera. “We'll talk later,” Anna Pavlovna said, smiling. And, ridding herself of the young man who did not know how to live, she returned to her duties as mistress of the house and went on listening and looking out, ready to come to the rescue at any point where the conversation lagged. As the owner of a spinning mill, having put his workers in their places, strolls about the establishment, watching out for an idle spindle or the odd one squealing much too loudly, and hastens to go and slow it down or start it up at the proper speed—so Anna Pavlovna strolled about her drawing room, going up to a circle that had fallen silent or was too talkative, and with one word or rearrangement set the conversation machine running evenly and properly again. But amidst all these cares there could still be seen in her a special fear for Pierre. She glanced at him concernedly when he went over to listen to what was being talked about around Mortemart and went on to another circle where the abbé was talking. For Pierre, brought up abroad, this soirée of Anna Pavlovna's was the first he had seen in Russia. He knew that all the intelligentsia of Petersburg was gathered there, and, like a child in a toy shop, he * You know, my husband is leaving me . . . he's going to get himself killed. Tell me, why this nasty war? † What a delightful person this little princess is! ‡ It's very nice of you, Monsieur Pierre, to have come to see a poor sick woman.

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looked everywhere at once. He kept fearing to miss intelligent conversations that he might have listened to. Looking at the self-assured and elegant expressions on the faces gathered here, he kept expecting something especially intelligent. Finally he went up to Morio. The conversation seemed interesting to him, and he stopped, waiting for a chance to voice his thoughts, as young people like to do.

III Anna Pavlovna's soirée got going. The spindles on all sides hummed evenly and ceaselessly. Besides ma tante, next to whom sat only one elderly lady with a thin, weepy face, somewhat alien to this brilliant company, the company had broken up into three circles. In one, mostly masculine, the center was the abbé; in another, of young people, it was the beautiful Princess Hélène, Prince Vas-sily's daughter, and the pretty, red-cheeked little princess Bolkonsky, too plump for her age. In the third, it was Mortemart and Anna Pavlovna. The viscount was a nice-looking young man, with soft features and manners, obviously regarded himself as a celebrity, but, from good breeding, modestly allowed himself to be made use of by the company in which he found himself. Anna Pavlovna was obviously treating her guests to him. As a good maître d'hôtel presents, as something supernaturally excellent, a piece of beef one would not want to eat if one saw it in the dirty kitchen, so that evening Anna Pavlovna served up to her guests first the viscount, then the abbé, as something supernaturally refined. In Mortemart's circle the conversation turned 12 at once to the murder of the duc d'Enghien.” The viscount said that the duc d'Enghien had perished from his own magnanimity and that there were special reasons for Bonaparte's viciousness. * “Ah, voyons. Contez-nous cela, vicomte,” said Anna Pavlovna, joyfully sensing that something à la Louis XV echoed in this phrase, “contez-nous cela, vicomte.” The viscount bowed as a sign of submission and smiled politely. Anna Pavlovna Circled around the viscount and invited everyone to listen to his story. “Le vicomte a été personellement connu de monseigneur,” Anna Pavlovna whispered to one. “Le vicomte est un parfait conteur,” she said to another. “Comme on voit l'homme de la † bonne compagnie,” she said to a third; and the viscount was presented to the company in a most refined and advantageous light, like a roast beef on a hot platter sprinkled with herbs. The viscount was just about to begin his story and smiled subtly. “Come over here, chère Hélène,” Anna Pavlovna said to the beautiful princess, who was sitting some way off, forming the center of another circle. Princess Hélène was smiling; she got up with the same unchanging smile of a perfectly beautiful woman with which she had entered the drawing room. Lightly rustling her white ball gown trimmed with ivy and moss, her white shoulders gleaming, her hair and diamonds shining, she walked straight on between the parted men, not looking at anyone, but smiling to everyone, and as if kindly granting each of them the right to admire the beauty of her figure, her full shoulders, her very exposed bosom and back, as the fashion then was, and, as if bringing with her the brilliance of a ball, approached Anna Pavlovna. Hélène was so good-looking that there was not only not a trace of coquetry to be seen in her, but, on the contrary, it was as if she was embarrassed by her unquestionable and all too strongly and triumphantly effective beauty. It was as if she wished but was unable to diminish the effect of her beauty. Ah, there now. Tell us about that, Viscount. The viscount was known personally to my lord . . . The viscount is a perfect storyteller . . . How one can tell a man of good company. *

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Part One, III

*

“Quelle belle personnel” said everyone who saw her. As if struck by something extraordinary, the viscount shrugged his shoulders and lowered his eyes while she was seating herself before him and shining upon him that same unchanging smile. † “Madame, je crains pour mes moyens devant un pareil auditoire,” he said, inclining his head with a smile. The princess rested the elbow of her bare, rounded arm on a little table and did not find it necessary to say anything. She waited, smiling. Throughout the story she sat erect, glancing occasionally now at her rounded, beautiful arm lying lightly on the table, now at the still more beautiful bosom on which she straightened a diamond necklace; she also straightened the folds of her gown several times, and, when the story produced an impression, turned to look at Anna Pavlovna and at once assumed the same expression as on the maid of honor's face, and then settled back into a radiant smile. After Hélène, the little princess also came over from the tea table. “Attendez-moi, je vais prendre mon ouvrage,” she said. “Voyons, à quoi pensez-vous?” she turned to Prince Ippolit. “Apportez-moi mon reticule.”‡ The princess, smiling and talking with everyone, suddenly effected the transposition, and, taking a seat, cheerily settled herself. “Now I feel good,” she said several times, and, asking them to begin, started to work. Prince Ippolit fetched her reticule, came after her, and, moving his chair towards her, sat down close by. Le charmant Hippolyte was striking in his extraordinary resemblance to his beautiful sister, and still more in being strikingly unattractive, despite that resemblance. The features of his face were the same as his sister's, but in her everything was lit up by her joyous, self-contented, young, unchanging smile and the extraordinary classical beauty of her body. In her brother, on the contrary, the same face was clouded by idiocy and invariably expressed a self-assured peevishness, and his body was skinny and weak. His eyes, nose, and mouth all seemed to shrink into an indefinite and dull grimace, and his arms and legs always assumed an unnatural position. § “Ce n'est pas une histoire des revenants?” he said, sitting down near the princess and hastily affixing a lorgnette to his eyes, as if he was unable to start talking without this instrument. “Mais non, mon cher,”** the surprised storyteller said, shrugging his shoulders. “C'est que je déteste les histoires des revenants,”†† said Prince Ippolit in such a tone that it was clear he had said these words and only then understood what they meant. Because of the self-assurance with which he spoke, no one could make out whether what he had said was very clever or very stupid. He was wearing a dark green tailcoat, trousers the color of cuisse de nymphe effrayée,‡‡ as he said himself, stockings and shoes. The vicomte told very nicely the then current anecdote that the duc d'Enghien had secretly gone to Paris to meet with Mlle George, and that there he had met Bonaparte, who also enjoyed the famous actress's favors, and that there, having met the duke, Napoleon happened to fall into one of those faints he was prone to and found himself in the duke's

What a beautiful person! Madame, I fear for my powers before such an audience. ‡ Wait for me, I'm going to bring my handwork . . . Come, what are you thinking of? ... Bring me my reticule. § It's not a ghost story? ** No, my dear. †† Because I detest ghost stories. ‡‡ Thigh of frightened nymph. *

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power, which the duke did not take advantage of, and that Bonaparte afterwards revenged himself for this magnanimity with the duke's death. The story was very nice and interesting, especially the moment when the rivals suddenly recognized each other, and the ladies, it seemed, were stirred. “Charmant,” said Anna Pavlovna, looking questioningly at the little princess. “Charmant,” whispered the little princess, sticking the needle into her work as if to signify that the interest and charm of the story kept her from going on working. The viscount appreciated this silent praise and, smiling gratefully, began to go on; but at that moment Anna Pavlovna, who kept glancing at the young man she found so frightening, noticed that his conversation with the abbé was much too loud and vehement, and she rushed to the rescue at the place of danger. Indeed, Pierre had managed to strike up a conversation with the abbé about political balance, and the abbé, obviously intrigued by the young man's simplehearted vehemence, was developing his favorite idea before him. The two men listened and talked too animatedly and naturally, and it was this that Anna Pavlovna did not like. “The means are European balance and the droit des gens,”* the abbé was saying. “Let a a powerful state like Russia, famous for its barbarism, stand disinterestedly at the head of a union having as its purpose the balance of Europe— and it will save the world!” “How are you going to find such balance?” Pierre began; but just then Anna Pavlovna came over and, with a stern glance at Pierre, asked the Italian how he was taking the local climate. The Italian's face suddenly changed and acquired an insultingly false sweetness of expression, which was probably habitual with him in conversations with women. “I'm so enchanted with the charms of the intelligence and cultivation of society, especially the women's, where I have had the happiness to be received, that I have not yet had time to think about the climate,” he said. Not letting go of the abbé and Pierre, Anna Pavlovna, the better to keep an eye on them, joined them to the general circle. Just then a new person entered the drawing room. This new person was the young Prince Andrei Bolkonsky, the little princess's husband. Prince Bolkonsky was of medium height, a rather handsome young man with well-defined and dry features. Everything in his figure, from his weary, bored gaze to his quiet, measured gait, presented the sharpest contrast with his small, lively wife. Obviously, he not only knew everyone in the drawing room, but was also so sick of them that it was very boring for him to look at them and listen to them. Of all the faces he found so boring, the face of his pretty wife seemed to be the one he was most sick of. With a grimace that spoiled his handsome face, he turned away from her. He kissed Anna Pavlovna's hand and, narrowing his eyes, looked around at the whole company. † “Vous vous enrôlez pour la guerre, mon prince?” said Anna Pavlovna. “Le général Koutouzoff,” said Bolkonsky, emphasizing the last syllable, zoff, like a Frenchman, “a bien voulu de moi pour aide-de-camp...‡ “Et Lise, votre femme?”§ “She'll go to the country.” “Shame on you to deprive us of your lovely wife.” “André,” said his wife, addressing her husband in the same coquettish tone in which she addressed others, “what a story the viscount told us about mademoiselle George and Bonaparte!” The right of nations. You're enlisting for the war, my prince? ‡ General Kutuzov wanted me for his adjutant. § And Liza, your wife? *

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Prince Andrei closed his eyes and turned away. Pierre, who had not taken his joyful, friendly eyes off Prince Andrei since he entered the drawing room, went up to him and took his arm. Prince Andrei, without turning around, wrinkled his face into a grimace, expressing vexation at whoever had taken his arm, but, seeing Pierre's smiling face, suddenly smiled an unexpectedly kind and pleasant smile. “Well, well! ... So you, too, are in high society!” he said to Pierre. “I knew you'd be here,” Pierre replied. “I'll come to you for supper,” he added softly, so as not to interfere with the viscount, who was going on with his story. “May I?” “No, you may not,” Prince Andrei said, laughing, letting Pierre know by the pressure of his hand that there was no need to ask. He was about to say more, but just then Prince Vassily and his daughter rose, and the men stood up to let them pass. “You will excuse me, my dear viscount,” Prince Vassily said to the Frenchman, gently pulling him down on his chair by the sleeve, so that he would not stand up. “This unfortunate fête at the ambassador's deprives me of my pleasure and interrupts you. I'm very sorry to leave your delightful soirée,” he said to Anna Pavlovna. His daughter, Princess Hélène, lightly holding the folds of her gown, walked between the chairs, and the smile shone still more brightly on her beautiful face. Pierre looked with enraptured, almost frightened eyes at this beauty as she walked past him. “Very good-looking,” said Prince Andrei. “Very,” said Pierre. Passing by, Prince Vassily seized Pierre by the hand and turned to Anna Pavlovna. “Educate this bear for me,” he said. “He's been living with me for a month, and this is the first time I've seen him in society. Nothing is so necessary for a young man as the company of intelligent women.”

IV Anna Pavlovna smiled and promised to occupy herself with Pierre, who she knew was related to Prince Vassily through his father. The elderly lady who had so far been sitting with ma tante hastily got up and overtook Prince Vassily in the front hall. All the former sham interest disappeared from her face. Her kind, weepy face expressed only anxiety and fear. “What can you tell me, Prince, about my Boris?” she said, overtaking him in the front hall. (She pronounced the name Boris with a special emphasis on the o.) “I cannot remain in Petersburg any longer. Tell me, what news can I bring my poor boy?” Though Prince Vassily listened to the elderly lady reluctantly and almost impolitely, and even showed impatience, she smiled at him gently and touchingly, and even took him by the arm to keep him from walking away. “It won't cost you anything to say a word to the sovereign, and he'll be transferred straight away to the guards,” she pleaded. “Believe me, Princess, I'll do all I can,” replied Prince Vassily, “but it's hard for me to ask the sovereign. Pd advise you to turn to Rumyantsev through Prince Golitsyn—that would be smarter.” The elderly lady bore the name of Princess Drubetskoy, one of the best families of Russia, but she was poor, had long since left society, and had lost her former connections. She had come now to solicit an appointment to the guards for her only son. She had invited herself and come to Anna Pavlovna's soirée only in order to see Prince Vassily, only for that had she listened to the viscount's story. Prince Vassily's words frightened her; hêr once beautiful face showed spite, but that lasted no more than a moment. She smiled again and took a slightly stronger grip on Prince Vassily's arm. “Listen, Prince,” she said, “I've never asked you for anything, and never will, I've never reminded you of my father's friendship for you. But now, I adjure you in God's name, do 20

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this for my son, and I will consider you my benefactor,” she added hastily. “No, don't be angry, but promise me. I asked Golitsyn and he refused. Soyez le bon enfant que vous avez été,”* she said, trying to smile, though there were tears in her eyes. “Papa, we'll be late,” said Princess Hélène, who was waiting at the door, turning her beautiful head on her classical shoulders. But influence in society is a capital that must be used sparingly, lest it disappear. Prince Vassily knew that and, having once realized that if he were to solicit for everyone who solicited from him, it would soon become impossible for him to solicit for himself, he rarely used his influence. In Princess Drubetskoy's case, however, after her new appeal, he felt something like a pang of conscience. She had reminded him of the truth: he owed his first steps in the service to her father. Besides, he could see from the way she behaved that she was one of those women, especially mothers, who, once they take something into their heads, will not leave off until their desire is fulfilled, and are otherwise prepared to pester you every day and every minute, and even to make scenes. This last consideration gave him pause. “Chère Anna Mikhailovna,” he said, with his usual tone of familiarity and boredom, “it is almost impossible for me to do what you want; but to prove to you how much I love you and honor the memory of your late father, I will do the impossible: your son will be transferred to the guards, here is my hand on it. Are you satisfied?” “My dear, you are our benefactor! I expected nothing else from you; I knew how kind you are.” He was about to leave. “Wait, two more words. Une fois passé aux gardes...”† She faltered. “You're on good terms with Mikhail Ilarionovich Kutuzov, recommend Boris as his adjutant. Then I'll be at peace and...” Prince Vassily smiled. “That I will not promise you. You know how besieged Kutuzov has been since he was appointed commander in chief.13 He told me himself that all the Moscow ladies are conspiring to send their children to be his adjutants.” “No, you must promise, I won't let you go, my dear benefactor.” “Papa,” the beauty repeated in the same tone, “we'll be late.” “Well, au revoir, good-bye, you see...” “So you'll speak to the sovereign tomorrow?” “Without fail, but to Kutuzov I don't promise.” “No, do promise, do promise, Basile,” Anna Mikhailovna said behind him, with the smile of a young coquette, which must have suited her very well once, but now did not go with her emaciated face. She evidently forgot her age and employed, out of habit, all her old feminine resources. But as soon as he left, her face again acquired the same cold, sham expression it had had before. She went back to the circle, where the viscount was going on with his story, and again pretended to listen, waiting for the moment to leave, since her business was done. “But how do you find all this latest comedy du sacre de Milan,”14 asked Anna Pavlovna. “Et la nouvelle comédie des peuples de Gênes et de Lucques, qui viennent présenter leurs voeux à M. Buonaparte. M. Buonaparte assis sur un trône, et exauçant les voeux des nations! Adorable! Non, mais c'est à en devenir folle! On dirait, que le monde entier a perdu la tête.”‡ Be the good boy you used to be. Once he's transferred to the guards ... ‡ ... of the coronation in Milan . . . And the new comedy of the people of Genoa and Lucca, who who come to present their best wishes to M. Buonaparte. M. Buonaparte seated on a throne and *

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Prince Andrei grinned, looking straight into Anna Pavlovna's face. “‘Dieu me la donne, gare à qui la touche,'“ he said (Bonaparte's words, spoken as the crown was placed on him). “On dit qu'il a été très beau en prononçant ces paroles,”* he added, and repeated the words once more in Italian: “ 'Dio mi la dona, guai a chi la tocca. ' “ “J'espère enfin,” Anna Pavlovna continued, “que ça a été la goutte d'eau qui fera déborder le verre. Les souverains ne peuvent plus supporter cet homme, qui menace tout.”† “Les souverains? Je ne parle pas de la Russie,” the viscount said courteously and hopelessly. “Les souverains, madame? Qu'ont-ils fait pour Louis XVI, pour la reine, pour madame Elisabeth?15 Rien,” he continued, growing animated. “Et croyez-moi, ils subissent la punition pour leur trahison de la cause des Bourbons. Les souverains? Ils envoient des ‡ ambassadeurs complimenter l'usurpateur.” And with a contemptuous sigh, he again changed position. At these words, Prince Ippolit, who had long been gazing at the viscount through his lorgnette, suddenly turned his whole body to the little princess and, asking her for a needle, began showing her the coat of arms of the Condés,16 drawing with the needle on the table. He explained this coat of arms to her with a significant air, as if the princess had asked him about it. “Baton de gueules, engrêlé de gueules d'azur—maison Condé,”§ he said. The princess listened, smiling. “If Bonaparte remains on the throne of France for another year,” the viscount continued the new conversation, with the air of a man who does not listen to others, but, in matters known better to him than to anyone else, follows only the train of his own thoughts, “things will go too far. Intrigues, coercion, banishments, executions will forever destroy French society—I mean good society—and then...” He shrugged his shoulders and spread his arms. Pierre was about to say something: the conversation interested him, but Anna Pavlovna, who was keeping watch on him, interrupted. “The emperor Alexander,” she said, with the sadness that always accompanied her talk about the imperial family, “declared that he would leave it to the French themselves to choose their form of government. And I think there's no doubt that the whole nation, freed of the usurper, will throw itself into the arms of the lawful king,” Anna Pavlovna said, trying to be amiable to the émigré and royalist. “That's doubtful,” said Prince Andrei. “Monsieur le vicomte quite rightly supposes that things have already gone too far. I think it would be hard to return to the old ways.” “From what I've heard,” Pierre, blushing, again mixed into the conversation, “almost all the nobility have already gone over to Bonaparte's side.” “It's the Bonapartists who say that,” said the viscount, not looking at Pierre. “Right now it's hard to know public opinion in France.”

granting the wishes of the nations! Adorable! No, but it could make you crazy! You'd think the whole world has lost its mind! * “God gives it to me, woe to him who touches it” ... They say he was very handsome as he spoke those words. † I hope, finally ... that this was the drop of water that will make the glass overflow. The sovereigns can no longer put up with this man who threatens everything. ‡ The sovereigns? I'm not speaking of Russia . . . The sovereigns, madame! What did they do for Louis XVI, for the queen, for Madame Elizabeth? Nothing ... And believe me, they are being punished for their betrayal of the cause of the Bourbons. The sovereigns? They send ambassadors to compliment the usurper. § Bar of gules, engrailed with gules of azure—house of Condé.

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*

“Bonaparte l'a dit,” Prince Andrei said with a grin. (It was evident that he did not like the viscount and that, though he was not looking at him, his talk was directed against him.) “‘Je leur ai montré le chemin de la gloire,’” he said after a short silence, again repeating the words of Napoleon, “'ils n'en ont pas voulu; je leur ai ouvert mes antichambres, ils se sont précipités en foule . . .' Je ne sais pas à quel point il a eu le droit de le dire.”† “Aucun,” the viscount retorted. “After the duke's murder, even the most partial people ceased to see a hero in him. Si même ça a été un héros pour certains gens,” the viscount said, turning to Anna Pavlovna, “depuis l'assassinat du duc il y a un martyr de plus dans le ciel, un héros de moins sur la terre.”‡ Before Anna Pavlovna and the others had time to smile appreciatively at these words of the viscount's, Pierre again burst into the conversation, and Anna Pavlovna, though she anticipated that he would say something improper, could no longer stop him. “The execution of the duv d'Enghien,” said Pierre, “was a necessity of state; and I precisely see greatness of soul in the fact that Napoleon was not afraid to take upon himself alone the responsibility for this act.” “Dieu! mon dieu!”§ Anna Pavlovna whispered in a frightened whisper. “Comment, monsieur Pierre, vous trouvez que l'assassinat est grandeur d'âme?”** said the little princess, smiling and drawing her work towards her. “Ah! Oh!” said various voices. “Capital!” Prince Ippolit said in English and began slapping his knee with his palm. The viscount merely shrugged. Pierre gazed triumphantly at his listeners over his spectacles. “I say that,” he went on desperately, “because the Bourbons fled from the revolution, abandoning the people to anarchy; and Napoleon alone was able to understand the revolution, to defeat it, and therefore, for the sake of the common good, he could not stop short at the life of a single man.” “Wouldn't you like to move to that table?” asked Anna Pavlovna. But Pierre, not answering, went on with his speech. “No,” he said, growing more and more inspired, “Napoleon is great, because he stood above the revolution, put an end to its abuses, and kept all that was good—the equality of citizens and freedom of speech and of the press—and that is the only reason why he gained power.” “Yes, if he had taken that power and, without using it for murder, given it to the lawful king,” said the viscount, “then I would call him a great man.” “He couldn't do that. The people gave him power only so that he could deliver them from the Bourbons, and because the people saw a great man in him. The revolution was a great thing,” M'sieur Pierre went on, showing by this desperate and provocative parenthetical phrase his great youth and desire to speak everything out all the sooner. “Revolution and regicide a great thing? ... After that... wouldn't you like to move to that table?” Anna Pavlovna repeated. ††17 “Contrat social,” the viscount said with a meek smile. Bonaparte has said that. “I showed them the path to glory . . . they did not want it; I opened my antechambers to them, they rushed there in a mob.” I don't know to what extent he had the right to say it. ‡ None . . . Even if that had been a hero for certain people . . . since the assassination of the duke there is one more martyr in heaven, one less hero on earth. § God! my God! ** What, Monsieur Pierre, you find that assassination is greatness of soul? †† Social contract. *

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“I'm not talking about regicide. I'm talking about ideas.” “Yes, the ideas of pillage, murder, and regicide,” an ironic voice interrupted again. “Those were extremes, to be sure, but the whole meaning wasn't in them, the meaning was in the rights of man, emancipation from prejudice, the equality of citizens; and Napoleon kept all these ideas in all their force.” “Liberty and equality,” the viscount said scornfully, as if finally deciding to prove seriously to this young man all the stupidity of his talk, “these are resounding words that have long been compromised. Who doesn't love liberty and equality? Our Savior already preached liberty and equality. Did people become happier after the revolution? On the contrary. We wanted liberty, but Bonaparte destroyed it.” Prince Andrei kept glancing with a smile now at Pierre, now at the viscount, now at the hostess. For the first moment of Pierre's outburst, Anna Pavlovna was horrified, accustomed though she was to society; but when she saw that despite the blasphemous speeches uttered by Pierre, the viscount did not lose his temper, and when she became certain that it was now impossible to suppress these speeches, she gathered her forces and, joining the viscount, attacked the orator. “Mais, mon cher monsieur Pierre,” said Anna Pavlovna, “how do you explain a great man who could execute a duke, or, finally, any simple man, without a trial and without guilt?” “I'd like to ask,” said the viscount, “how monsieur explains the eighteenth Brumaire.18 Was that not a deception? C'est un escamotage, qui ne ressemble nullement à la manière d'agir d'un grand bomme.”* 19 “And the prisoners he killed in Africa?” said the little princess. “It's terrible!” And she shrugged her shoulders. “C'est un roturier, vous aurez beau dire,”† said Prince Ippolit. M'sieur Pierre did not know whom to answer, looked around at them all, and smiled. His smile was not like that of other people, blending into a non-smile. With him, on the contrary, when a smile came, his serious and even somewhat sullen face vanished suddenly, instantly, and another appeared— childish, kind, even slightly stupid, and as if apologetic. To the viscount, who was meeting him for the first time, it was clear that this Jacobin was not at all as frightening as his words. Everyone fell silent. “Do you want him to answer everybody at once?” asked Prince Andrei. “Besides, in the acts of a statesman one must distinguish among the acts of the private person, the military leader, and the emperor. So it seems to me.” “Yes, yes, of course,” Pierre picked up, gladdened by the arrival of unexpected help. “It's impossible not to admit,” Prince Andrei went on, “that Napoleon was a great man on the bridge of Arcole, and in the Jaffa hospital, when he shook hands with the plague victims,20 but... there are other acts which are hard to justify.” Prince Andrei, who evidently wanted to soften the awkwardness of Pierre's speech, got up, intending to leave and making a sign to his wife. Suddenly Prince Ippolit rose and, gesturing for everyone to stay and sit down, began to speak: “Ah! aujourd'hui on m'a raconté une anecdote moscovite, charmante: il faut que je vous en régale. Vous m'excusez, vicomte, il faut que je raconte en russe. Autrement on ne sentira pas le sel de l'histoire,”‡ It is a conjuring trick which in no way resembles the way a great man acts. He's a commoner, you may as well say. ‡ Ah! today someone told me a charming Muscovite anecdote: I must treat you to it. Excuse me, Viscount, I must tell it in Russian. Otherwise the salt of the story won't be felt. *

†

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And Prince Ippolit began to speak in Russian, with a pronunciation such as Frenchmen have after spending a year in Russia. Everyone stayed: so animatedly, so insistently did Prince Ippolit call for attention to his story. “In Moscou there is a ladee, une dame. And she is very stingee. She must 'ave two valets de pied* behind the carriage. And of very grand height. That was in her taste. Now, she 'ad une femme de chambre,† also of grand height. She said...” Here Prince Ippolit fell to thinking, evidently having a hard time working it out. “She said... yes, she said: 'Girl' (to the femme de chambre), 'put on a livrée and come with me, behind the carriage, faire des visites.'“‡ Here Prince Ippolit snorted and guffawed, far in advance of his listeners, which produced an impression unfavorable to the narrator. Many smiled, however, the elderly lady and Anna Pavlovna among them. “So she went. Suddenly there was a strong wind. The girl lost her hat, and her long hairs came undone...” Here he could no longer control himself and began laughing fitfully, saying through his laughter: “And the whole world found out...” With that the anecdote ended. Though it was not clear why he had told it, and why it absolutely had to be told in Russian, all the same Anna Pavlovna and the others appreciated Prince Ippolit's social grace, in thus pleasantly putting an end to M'sieur Pierre's unpleasant and ungracious outburst. After the anecdote, the conversation broke up into small, insignificant commentaries on past and future balls, on performances, and on who would see whom when and where.

V Having thanked Anna Pavlovna for her charmante soirée, the guests began to leave. Pierre was clumsy. Fat, unusually tall, broad, with enormous red hands, he did not, as they say, know how to enter a salon, and still less did he know how to leave one, that is, by saying something especially pleasant at the door. Besides that, he was absentminded. Getting up, he took a three-cornered hat with a general's plumage instead of his own and held on to it, plucking at the feathers, until the general asked him to give it back. But all his absentminded-ness and inability to enter a salon and speak in it were redeemed by his expression of good nature, simplicity, and modesty. Anna Pavlovna turned to him and, with a Christian meekness expressing forgiveness for his outburst, nodded to him and said: “I hope to see you again, but I also hope that you will change your opinions, my dear M'sieur Pierre,” she said. When she said this to him, he made no reply, but only bowed and once more showed everyone his smile, which said nothing except perhaps this: “Opinions are opinions, but you see what a good and nice fellow I am.” And everyone, including Anna Pavlovna, involuntarily felt it. Prince Andrei went out to the front hall and, offering his shoulders to the footman, who was putting his cloak on him, listened indifferently to his wife's chatter with Prince Ippolit, who also came out to the front hall. Prince Ippolit stood beside the pretty, pregnant princess and looked at her directly and intently through his lorgnette. “Go in, Annette, you'll catch cold,” said the little princess, taking leave of Anna Pavlovna. “C'est arrêté,”§ she added softly. Footmen. A chambermaid. ‡ ... livery ... to make visits. § It's agreed. *

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Anna Pavlovna had already managed to speak with Liza about the match she was contriving between Anatole and the little princess's sister-in-law. “I'm relying on you, my dear friend,” Anna Pavlovna said, also softly, “you'll write to * her and tell me comment le père envisagera la chose. Au revoir.” And she left the front hall. hall. Prince Ippolit went over to the little princess and, bringing his face down close to hers, began saying something to her in a half whisper. Two footmen, one the princess's, the other his, waiting for them to finish talking, stood with shawl and redingote and listened to their French talk, which they could not understand, with such faces as if they understood what was being said but did not want to show it. The princess, as usual, talked smilingly and listened laughingly. “I'm very glad I didn't go to the ambassador's,” said Prince Ippolit, “it's boring ... A wonderful evening. Wonderful, isn't it so?” “They say the ball will be very nice,” replied the princess, her slightly mus-tached lip pulling upwards. “All the beautiful society women will be there.” “Not all, since you won't be there; not all,” said Prince Ippolit, laughing joyfully, and, snatching the shawl from the footman, even shoving him, he began putting it on the princess. Either from awkwardness or intentionally (no one would have been able to tell), he was a long while lowering his arms, even when the shawl was already put on, and it was as if he was embracing the young woman. Graciously, but still smiling, she withdrew, turned, and looked at her husband. Prince Andrei's eyes were shut, which made him look tired and sleepy. “Are you ready, madame?” he asked his wife, looking past her. Prince Ippolit hastily put on his redingote, which, in the new style, hung lower than his heels, and, tangling himself in it, ran to the porch after the princess, whom the footman was helping into the carriage. “Princesse, au revoir,” he cried, his tongue getting as tangled as his feet. The princess, picking up her dress, was settling herself in the darkness of the carriage; her husband was straightening his sword; Prince Ippolit, on the pretext of being of service, got in everyone's way. “Ex-cuse me, sir,” Prince Andrei, with dry unpleasantness, addressed himself in Russian to Prince Ippolit, who was standing in his way. “I'll be waiting for you, Pierre,” the same voice of Prince Andrei said gently and tenderly. The postilion touched up the horses, and the wheels of the carriage rumbled. Prince Ippolit laughed fitfully, standing on the porch and waiting for the viscount, whom he had promised to take home. “Eh, bien, mon cher, votre petite princesse est très bien, très bien,” said the viscount, getting into the carriage with Ippolit. “Mais très bien.” He kissed the tips of his fingers. “Et † tout-à-fait française.” Ippolit laughed with a snort. “Et savez-vous que vous êtes terrible avec votre petit air innocent,” the viscount continued. “Je plains le pauvre mari, ce petit officier, qui se donne des airs de prince régnant.”‡ Ippolit snorted again and said through his laughter: How the father will look upon it. Good-bye. Well, my dear, your little princess is very nice, very nice ... Very nice indeed . . . And completely French. ‡ And you know, you're terrible with your innocent little air ... I pity the poor husband, that little officer who gives himself the airs of a reigning prince. *

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“Et vous disiez, que les dames russes ne valaient pas les dames françaises. * Il faut savoir s'y prendre.” Pierre, arriving first, went to Prince Andrei's study, being a familiar of the house, and, as was his habit, at once lay down on the sofa, took the first book that caught his eye from 21 the shelf (it was Caesar's Commentaries) , and, leaning on his elbow, began reading it from the middle. “What have you done to mademoiselle Scherer? She'll be quite ill now,” said Prince Andrei, coming into his study and rubbing his small white hands. Pierre swung his whole body so that the sofa creaked, turned his animated face to Prince Andrei, smiled, and waved his hand. “No, that abbé is very interesting, only he has the wrong notion of things... In my opinion, eternal peace is possible, but I don't know how to say it ... Only it's not through political balance...” Prince Andrei was obviously not interested in these abstract conversations. “Mon cher, you can't go saying what you think everywhere. Well, so, have you finally decided on anything? Are you going to be a horse guard or a diplomat?” Prince Andrei asked after a moment's silence. Pierre sat up on the sofa with both legs tucked under him. “Can you imagine, I still don't know. I don't like either of them.” “But you must decide on something. Your father's waiting.” At the age of ten, Pierre had been sent abroad with an abbé-tutor and had remained there until he was twenty. When he returned to Moscow, his father dismissed the abbé and said to the young man: “Go to Petersburg now, look around, and choose. I'll agree to anything. Here's a letter to Prince Vassily, and here's some money. Write to me about everything, I'll help you in everything.” Pierre had been choosing a career for three months already and had done nothing. This was the choice that Prince Andrei was talking about with him. Pierre rubbed his forehead. “But he must be a Mason,”22 he said, meaning the abbé he had seen at the soirée. “That's all rubbish,” Prince Andrei stopped him again, “better let's talk about business. Have you been to the horse guards? ...” “No, I haven't, but here's what's come into my head and I wanted to tell you. There's war now against Napoleon. If it were a war for freedom, I could understand it, I'd be the first to go into military service; but to help England and Austria against the greatest man in the world ... is not right.” Prince Andrei merely shrugged his shoulders at Pierre's childish talk. He made it look as though he could not reply to such stupidity; but in fact it was hard to reply to this naive question in any other way than Prince Andrei had done. “If everyone made war only according to his own convictions, there would be no war,” he said. “And that would be excellent,” said Pierre. Prince Andrei smiled. “It might very well be excellent, but it will never happen...” “Well, what makes you go to war?” asked Pierre. “What makes me? I don't know. I have to. Besides, I'm going ...” He paused. “I'm going because this life I lead here, this life—is not for me!”

* And you were saying that Russian ladies were not as good as French ladies. You just have to know how to handle them.

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VI There was the rustle of a woman's dress in the next room. Prince Andrei shook himself as if coming to his senses, and his face took on the same expression it had had in Anna Pavlovna's drawing room. Pierre lowered his legs from the sofa. The princess came in. She had already changed to a house dress, but one just as elegant and fresh. Prince Andrei stood up, politely moving an armchair for her. “Why is it, I often wonder,” she began, in French as always, hurriedly and fussily sitting down in the armchair, “why is it that Annette has never married? How stupid you all are, messieurs, not to have married her. Forgive me, but you understand nothing about women. You're such an arguer, M'sieur Pierre.” “I also keep arguing with your husband. I don't understand why he wants to go to the war,” said Pierre, without any constraint (so usual in the relations of a young man with a young woman), turning to the princess. The princess gave a flutter. Evidently Pierre's words had touched her to the quick. “Ah, that's just what I say!” she said. “I don't understand, I decidedly do not understand, why men can't live without war. Why is it that we women want none of it and have no need of it? Well, you be the judge. I keep telling him: here he's his uncle's adjutant, a most brilliant position. He's so well-known, so appreciated by everyone. The other day at the Apraksins' I heard a lady ask: 'C'est ça le fameux prince André?' Ma parole * d'honneur!” she laughed. “He's so well received everywhere. He could easily become an imperial adjutant. You know, the sovereign spoke to him very graciously. Annette and I were saying that it could easily be arranged. What do you think?” Pierre looked at Prince Andrei and, noticing that his friend did not like this conversation, made no reply, “When do you go?” he asked. “Ah! ne me parlez pas de ce départ, ne m'en parlez pas. Je ne veux pas en entendre parler,”† the princess said in the same capriciously playful tone in which she had spoken with Ippolit in the drawing room and which was so obviously unsuited to the family circle, where Pierre was like a member. “Today, when I thought how I'd have to break off all these dear relations ... And then, you know, André?” She winked meaningfully at her husband. ‡ “J'ai peur, j'ai peur!” she whispered, her back shuddering. Her husband looked at her as if he was surprised to notice there was someone else in the room besides himself and Pierre. However, with cold politeness he inquiringly addressed his wife: “What are you afraid of, Liza? I cannot understand,” he said. “See what egoists all men are; all, all egoists! For the sake of his whims, God knows why, he abandons me, he locks me up in the country alone.” “With my father and sister, don't forget,” Prince Andrei said quietly. “Alone all the same, without my friends ... And he wants me not to be afraid.” Her tone was querulous now, her little lip rose, giving her face not a joyful but an animalish, squirrel-like expression. She fell silent, as if finding it indecent to speak of her pregnancy in front of Pierre, though that was where the essence of the matter lay. “I still haven't understood de quoi vous avez peur,”§ Prince Andrei said slowly, not taking his eyes off his wife. The princess blushed and waved her hands desperately.

“So that's the famous Prince Andrei?” “My word of honor.” Ah! do not speak to me of this departure, do not speak to me of it. I do not want to hear it spoken of. ‡ I'm afraid, I'm afraid! § ... what you are afraid of. *

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*

“Non, André, je dis que vous avez tellement, tellement changé...” “Your doctor tells you to go to bed earlier,” said Prince Andrei. “You should get some sleep.” The princess said nothing, and her short lip with its little mustache suddenly trembled. Prince Andrei, getting up and shrugging his shoulders, began to pace the room. Pierre gazed wonderingly and naively through his spectacles now at him, now at the princess, and stirred as if he also wanted to get up, but changed his mind again. “What do I care if M'sieur Pierre is here,” the little princess said suddenly, and her pretty face suddenly spread into a tearful grimace. “I've long wanted to say to you, André: why have you changed so much towards me? What have I done to you? You're going into the army, you have no pity for me. Why is it?” “Lise!” was all Prince Andrei said; but in this word there was an entreaty, and a threat, and above all the conviction that she herself would regret her words; but she hurriedly went on: “You treat me like a sick person or a child. I see it all. You weren't like this six months ago.” “Lise, I beg you to stop,” Prince Andrei said still more expressively. Pierre, who was becoming more and more agitated during this conversation, got up and went over to the princess. He seemed unable to bear the sight of tears and was about to start crying himself. “Calm yourself, Princess. It seems so to you, because, I assure you, I myself have experienced ... why... because... No, excuse me, an outsider is in the way here ... No, calm yourself... Good-bye...” Prince Andrei caught him by the arm. “No, wait, Pierre. The princess is so good that she will not want to deprive me of the pleasure of spending an evening with you.” “No, he thinks only of himself,” said the princess, not holding back her angry tears. “Lise,” Prince Andrei said drily, raising his tone to a degree which showed that his patience had run out. Suddenly the angry, squirrel-like expression on the princess's beautiful little face changed to an attractive and compassion-provoking expression of fear; her pretty eyes glanced from under her eyebrows at her husband, and her face acquired the timid and admissive look of a dog rapidly but weakly wagging its drooping tail. “Mon dieu, mon dieu!” said the princess, and taking up a fold of her dress in one hand, she went over to her husband and kissed him on the forehead. “Bonsoir, Lise,”† said Prince Andrei, standing up and kissing her hand politely, as if she were a stranger. The friends were silent. Neither of them would begin talking. Pierre kept glancing at Prince Andrei; Prince Andrei was rubbing his forehead with his small hand. “Let's go and have supper,” he said with a sigh, getting up and heading for the door. They went into the elegantly, newly, richly decorated dining room. Everything from the napkins to the silverware, china, and crystal bore that special stamp of newness that is found in the households of the recently married. In the middle of supper, the prince leaned his elbow on the table and, with an expression of nervous irritation such as Pierre had never seen in his friend before, began to talk, like a man who has long had something on his heart and suddenly decides to speak it out: “Never, never marry, my friend. Here's my advice to you: don't marry until you can tell yourself that you've done all you could, and until you've stopped loving the woman * †

No, Andrei, I say you've changed so much, so much ... Good night, Liza.

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you've chosen, until you see her clearly, otherwise you'll be cruelly and irremediably mistaken. Marry when you're old and good for nothing ... Otherwise all that's good and lofty in you will be lost. It will all go on trifles. Yes, yes, yes! Don't look at me with such astonishment. If you expect something from yourself in the future, then at every step you'll feel that it's all over for you, it's all closed, except the drawing room, where you'll stand on the same level as a court flunkey and an idiot... Ah, well! ...” He waved his hand energetically. Pierre took off his spectacles, which made his face change, expressing still more kindness, and looked at his friend in astonishment. “My wife,” Prince Andrei went on, “is a wonderful woman. She's one of those rare women with whom one can be at ease regarding one's own honor; but, my God, what wouldn't I give now not to be married! You're the first and only one I'm saying this to, because I love you.” Prince Andrei, in saying this, was less than ever like that Bolkonsky who sat sprawled in Anna Pavlovna's armchair and, narrowing his eyes, uttered French phrases through his teeth. His dry face was all aquiver with the nervous animation of every muscle; his eyes, in which the fire of life had seemed extinguished, now shone with a bright, radiant brilliance. One could see that, the we lifeless he seemed in ordinary times, the more energetic he was in moments of irritation. “You don't understand why I'm saying this,” he went on. “Yet it's a whole life's story. You talk of Bonaparte and his career,” he said, though Pierre had not talked of Bonaparte. “You talk of Bonaparte; but Bonaparte, when he was working, went step by step towards his goal, he was free, he had nothing except his goal—and he reached it. But bind yourself to a woman—and, like a prisoner in irons, you lose all freedom. And whatever hope and strength you have in you, it all only burdens and torments you with remorse. Drawing rooms, gossip, balls, vanity, triviality—that is the vicious circle I can't get out of. I'm now going to the war, to the greatest war that has ever been, yet I know nothing and am good for nothing. Je suis très aimable et très caustique,”* Prince Andrei went on, “and they listen to me at Anna Pavlovna's. And this stupid society, without which my wife cannot live, and these women ... If you only knew what toutes les femmes distinguées† and women in general really are! My father is right. Egoism, vanity, dull-wittedness, triviality in everything—that's women, when they show themselves as they are. Looking at them in society, it seems there's something there, but there's nothing, nothing, nothing! No, don't marry, dear heart, don't marry,” Prince Andrei concluded. “I find it funny,” said Pierre, “that you, you yourself, consider that you have no ability and that your life is a ruined life. You have everything, everything ahead of you. And you...” He did not say you what, but his tone already showed how highly he valued his friend and how much he expected from him in the future. “How can he say that!” thought Pierre. Pierre considered Prince Andrei the model of all perfections, precisely because Prince Andrei united in the highest degree all those qualities which Pierre did not possess and which could be most nearly expressed by the notion of strength of will. Pierre always marveled at Prince Andrei's ability to deal calmly with all sorts of people, at his extraordinary memory, his erudition (he had read everything, knew everything, had notions about everything), and most of all at his ability to work and learn. If Pierre had often been struck by Andrei's lack of ability for dreamy philosophizing (for which Pierre had a particular inclination), he saw it not as a defect, but as a strength.

* †

I am very amiable and very caustic. ... all refined women.

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In the best, the friendliest and simplest relations, flattery or praise is necessary, just as grease is necessary to keep wheels turning. * “Je suis un homme fini,” said Prince Andrei. “Why talk about me? Let's talk about you,” he said, pausing and smiling at his comforting thoughts. This smile was instantly reflected on Pierre's face. “But what is there to say about me?” asked Pierre, spreading his mouth into a carefree, merry smile. “What am I? Je suis un bâtard!” And he suddenly flushed crimson. † One could see that it had cost him great effort to say that. “Sans nom, sans fortune . . . And what, really ...” But he did not say what really. “I'm free so far, and I feel fine. Only I have no idea where to make my start. I seriously wanted to ask your advice.” Prince Andrei looked at him with kindly eyes. But in his friendly, gentle gaze a consciousness of his own superiority still showed. “You're dear to me especially because you're the only live person in our whole society. That's fine for you. Choose whatever you like; it's all the same. You'll be fine anywhere, but there's one thing: stop going to those Kuragins and leading that sort of life. It simply doesn't suit you: all this carousing with hussars, and all...” “Que voulez-vous, mon cher,” said Pierre, shrugging his shoulders, “les femmes, mon ‡ cher, les femmes!” “I don't understand,” replied Andrei. “Les femmes comme il faut are another matter; but les femmes of Kuragin, les femmes et le vin,§ I don't understand!” Pierre lived at Prince Vassily Kuragin's and took part in the dissolute life of his son Anatole, the same one they planned to marry to Prince Andrei's sister in order to reform him. “You know what?” said Pierre, as if a lucky thought had unexpectedly occurred to him. “Seriously, I've been thinking that for a long time. With this life I can't decide or even consider anything. I have a headache and no money. He invited me tonight, but I won't go.” “Give me your word of honor that you won't go anymore?” “Word of honor!” It was already past one o'clock when Pierre left his friend's house. It was a duskless Petersburg June night. Pierre got into a hired carriage with the intention of going home. But the closer he came, the more he felt the impossibility of falling asleep on that night, which more resembled an evening or a morning. One could see far down the empty streets. On the way, Pierre recalled that the usual gambling company was to gather at Anatole Kuragin's that evening, after which there was usually drinking, ending with one of Pierre's favorite amusements. “It would be nice to go to Kuragin's,” he thought. But at once he remembered the word of honor he had given Prince Andrei not to visit Kuragin. But at once, as happens with so-called characterless people, he desired so passionately to experience again that dissolute life so familiar to him, that he decided to go. And at once the thought occurred to him that the word he had given meant nothing, because before giving his word to Prince Andrei, he had also given Prince Anatole his word that he would be there; finally he thought that all these words of honor were mere conventions, with no definite meaning, especially if you considered that you might die the next day, or something so extraordinary might happen to you that there would no longer

I'm a finished man. I'm a bastard . . . With no name, no fortune... ‡ What do you want, my dear ... women, my dear, women! § Proper women ... women . . . women and wine. *

†

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be either honor or dishonor. That sort of reasoning often came to Pierre, destroying all his decisions and suppositions. He went to Kuragin's. Driving up to the porch of a large house near the horse guards' barracks, in which Anatole lived, he went up the lighted porch, the stairs, and entered an open door. There was no one in the front hall; empty bottles, capes, galoshes were lying about; there was a smell of wine, the noise of distant talking and shouting. Cards and supper were over, but the guests had not dispersed yet. Pierre threw off his cape and went into the first room, where the remains of supper lay and one lackey, thinking no one could see him, was finishing on the sly what was left of the wine in the glasses. From the third room came a racket, guffawing, the shouting of familiar voices, and the roaring of a bear. Some eight young men were crowded busily by an open window. Three were romping with a young bear, one of them dragging it by a chain, trying to frighten the others. “I stake a hundred on Stevens!” shouted one. “Make sure there's no holding on!” shouted another. “I'm for Dolokhov!” cried a third. “Break the grip, Kuragin.”23 “Let Bruin be, we're making a bet.” “At one go, otherwise you lose,” shouted a fourth. “Yakov! Let's have a bottle, Yakov!” shouted the host himself, a tall, handsome man, who was standing in the midst of the crowd in nothing but a fine shirt open on his chest. “Wait, gentlemen. Here's Petrusha, my dear friend,” he turned to Pierre. Another voice, that of a not very tall man with clear blue eyes, especially striking amidst all these drunken voices by its sober expression, shouted from the window: “Come here—break the grip!” This was Dolokhov, an officer of the Semyonovsky regiment, a notorious gambler and duellist, who lived with Anatole. Pierre smiled, looking around merrily. “I don't understand a thing. What's up?” he asked. “Wait, he's not drunk. Give me a bottle,” said Anatole, and taking a glass from the table, he went up to Pierre. “First of all, drink.” Pierre started drinking glass after glass, looking from under his brows at the drunken guests, who again crowded by the window, and listening to their talk. Anatole poured the wine for him and told him that Dolokhov was making a bet with the Englishman Stevens, a sailor who was there, that he, Dolokhov, could drink a bottle of rum sitting in the thirdfloor window with his legs hanging out. “Well, drink it all,” said Anatole, handing Pierre the last glass, “otherwise I won't let you go!” “No, I don't want to,” said Pierre, pushing Anatole away, and he went over to the window. Dolokhov was holding the Englishman by the hand and clearly, distinctly articulating the terms of the bet, mainly addressing Anatole and Pierre. Dolokhov was a man of medium height, curly-haired and with light blue eyes. He was about twenty-five. Like all infantry officers, he wore no mustache, and his mouth, the most striking feature of his face, was entirely visible. The lines of his mouth were remarkably finely curved. In the middle, the upper lip came down energetically on the sturdy lower lip in a sharp wedge, and at the corners something like two smiles were constantly formed, one on each side; and all of that together, especially combined with a firm, insolent, intelligent gaze, made up such an expression that it was impossible not to notice this face. Dolokhov was not a rich man and had no connections. And though Anatole ran through tens of thousands, Dolokhov lived with him and managed to place himself so that Anatole and all those who knew them respected Dolokhov more than Anatole. Dolokhov gambled 32

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at all games and almost always won. No matter how much he drank, he never lost his clearheadedness. Kura-gin and Dolokhov were both celebrities at that time in the world of Petersburg scapegraces and carousers. A bottle of rum was brought. Two lackeys were tearing out the frame that prevented one from sitting on the outer ledge of the window; they were obviously hurrying and intimidated by the orders and shouts of the surrounding gentlemen. Anatole went up to the window with his victorious look. He wanted to break something. He pushed the lackeys away and pulled at the frame, but the frame did not yield. He smashed a pane. “You next, strongman,” he turned to Pierre. Pierre took hold of the crosspieces, pulled, and, with a crash, here broke and there ripped out the oak frame. “Away with all of it, otherwise they'll think I'm holding on,” said Dolokhov. “The Englishman's boasting ... eh? ... all right? ...” said Anatole. “All right,” said Pierre, looking at Dolokhov, who, holding the bottle of rum in his hand, was approaching the window, through which the light of the sky could be seen and the glow of morning and evening merging in it. Dolokhov jumped up into the window with the bottle of rum in his hand. “Listen!” he shouted, standing on the windowsill and turning to the room. Everyone fell silent. “I put down” (he spoke in French so that the Englishman would understand him, and he did not speak the language all that well), “I put down fifty imperials—want to make it a hundred?” he added, addressing the Englishman. “No, fifty,” said the Englishman. “Very well, fifty imperials, that I will drink a whole bottle of rum, without taking it from my lips, drink it sitting outside the window, on this place” (he bent down and indicated the sloping ledge outside the window), “and without holding on to anything ... Right? ...” “Very good,” said the Englishman. Anatole turned to the Englishman and, taking him by the button of his tailcoat and looking at him from above (the Englishman was short), began repeating the terms of the bet to him in English. “Wait,” cried Dolokhov, tapping the bottle against the window to attract attention. “Wait, Kuragin; listen. If anybody else does the same, I'll pay him a hundred imperials. Understood?” The Englishman nodded his head, in no way making clear whether he did or did not accept this new bet. Anatole did not let go of the Englishman, and though he had nodded to show he had understood everything, Anatole translated Dolokhov's words into English for him. A young, lean boy, a life-hussar, who had gambled away everything that evening, climbed up on the window, stuck his head out, and looked down. “Oooh!” he said, looking out the window at the stone of the pavement. “Attention!” cried Dolokhov and pulled the officer from the window. Getting tangled in his spurs, the boy jumped down awkwardly into the room. After placing the bottle on the windowsill to have it conveniently at hand, Dolokhov slowly and carefully climbed into the window. Lowering his legs and spreading both hands against the sides of the window, he tried his position, settled himself, let go with his hands, shifted a little to the right, to the left, and took the bottle. Anatole brought two candles and set them on the windowsill, though it was already quite light. Dolokhov's back in its white shirt and his curly head were lit up from both sides. Everyone crowded by the window. The Englishman stood in front. Pierre smiled and said nothing. One of those

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present, older than the others, with a frightened and angry face, suddenly moved forward and was about to seize Dolokhov by the shirt. “Gentlemen, this is stupid; he'll kill himself,” said this more reasonable man. Anatole stopped him. “Don't touch, you'll frighten him, and he'll be killed. Eh? ... What then? ... Eh? ...” Dolokhov turned, adjusting his position, and again spreading his hands. “If anybody else tries to get at me,” he said, slowly forcing the words through his compressed and thin lips, “I'll chuck him down from here right now. So! ...” Having said “So!” he turned back again, let go with his hands, took the bottle and put it to his lips, threw his head back, and thrust his free arm up for balance. One of the lackeys, who had begun picking up the glass, stopped in a bent position, not taking his eyes from the window and Dolokhov's back. Anatole stood erect, his eyes gaping. The Englishman, his lips thrust out, watched from the side. The man who had tried to stop them rushed to the corner of the room and lay down on a sofa, face to the wall. Pierre covered his face, and a faint smile remained forgotten on it, though it now expressed terror and fear, Everyone was silent. Pierre took his hands away from his eyes. Dolokhov was sitting in the same position, only his head was thrown far back, so that the curly hair of his nape touched the collar of his shirt, and the hand holding the bottle rose higher and higher, trembling and making an effort. The bottle was apparently emptying and rising at the same time, pushing the head back. “Why is it taking so long?” thought Pierre. It seemed to him that more than half an hour had gone by. Suddenly Dolokhov made a backward movement, and his arm trembled nervously; this shudder was enough to shift his whole body, which was sitting on the sloping ledge. He shifted completely, and his arm and head trembled still more from the effort. One arm rose to take hold of the windowsill, but lowered itself again. Pierre again shut his eyes and said to himself that he was never going to open them. Suddenly he felt everything around him stirring. He looked: Dolokhov was standing on the windowsill, his face pale and merry. “Empty!” He tossed the bottle to the Englishman, who deftly caught it. Dolokhov jumped down from the window. He smelled strongly of rum. “Excellent! Good boy! There's a bet for you! Devil take you all!” they cried on all sides. The Englishman, having produced his purse, counted out the money. Dolokhov frowned and said nothing. Pierre climbed into the window. “Gentlemen! Who wants to make a bet with me? I'll do the same thing,” he suddenly shouted. “And there's no need for a bet, that's what. Tell them to bring a bottle. I'll do it... tell them.” “Let him, let him!” said Dolokhov, smiling. “What, have you lost your mind? Who'd let you? You get dizzy on the stairs,” came from various sides. “I'll drink it, give me a bottle of rum!” Pierre cried, pounding the table with a determined and drunken gesture, and he climbed into the window. They seized him by the arms; but he was so strong that he pushed those who came near him far away. “No, you won't get anywhere with him that way,” said Anatole. “Wait, I'll trick him. Listen, I'll make a bet with you, but tomorrow, and now let's all go to the * * *.” “Let's go,” cried Pierre, “let's go! ... And we'll take Bruin with us...” And he seized the bear and, hugging him and lifting him up, began waltzing around the room with him.

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VII Prince Vassily fulfilled the promise he had given at Anna Pavlovna's soirée to Princess Drubetskoy, who had solicited him for her only son Boris. A report on him was made to the sovereign, and, unlike others, he was transferred to the Semyonovsky guards regiment as an ensign. But Boris was not to be appointed adjutant or attaché to Kutuzov, despite all Anna Mikhailovna's soliciting and scheming. Soon after Anna Pavlovna's soirée, Anna Mikhailovna returned to Moscow, straight to her rich relations, the Rostovs, with whom she stayed in Moscow, and with whom her adored Borenka, just made an ensign in the army and transferred to the guards, had been brought up and had lived for years. The guards had already left Petersburg on the tenth of August, and her son, who had remained in Moscow to equip himself, was to catch up with them on the way to Radzivilov. At the Rostovs' it was the name day of the Natalyas, mother and younger daughter. 24 Since morning, coach and sixes had constantly been driving up and leaving, bringing people with congratulations to the big house of the countess Rostov on Povarskaya Street, which was known to all Moscow. The countess with her beautiful older daughter and the guests, who constantly replaced each other, were sitting in the drawing room. The countess was a woman with a thin, Oriental type of face, forty-five years old, evidently worn out by children, of whom she had had twelve. The slowness of her movements and speech, caused by weakness, gave her an air of importance that inspired respect. Princess Anna Mikhailovna Drubetskoy, as a member of the household, sat right there, helping with the business of receiving the guests and occupying them with conversation. The young people were in the back rooms, finding it unnecessary to take part in receiving visits. The count met the guests and saw them off, inviting them all to dinner. “Much obliged to you, ma chère or mon cher” (he said ma chère or mon cher to everyone without exception and without the slightest nuance, whether they were of higher or lower standing than himself), “for myself and the dear name-day ladies. See that you come for dinner. You'll offend me if you don't, mon cher. I cordially invite you on behalf of the whole family, ma chère.” These words he said with the same expression on his full, cheerful, and cleanshaven face, with the same strong handshake and repeated short bows, to everyone without exception or variation. Having seen off a guest, the count would return to the gentleman or lady who was still in the drawing room; moving up an armchair, and with the look of a man who loves life and knows how to live it, spreading his legs dashingly and putting his hands on his knees, he would sway significantly, offer his surmises about the weather, discuss health, sometimes in Russian, sometimes in very poor but self-confident French, and again, with the look of a man weary but firm in the fulfillment of his duty, would go to see people off, smoothing the thin gray hair over his bald spot, and again invite them to dinner. Occasionally, on returning from the front hall, he would pass through the conservatory and the servants' room to a big marble hall, where a table of eighty settings was being laid, and, looking at the servants carrying silver and china, opening out tables, and spreading damask tablecloths, he would call Dmitri Vassilievich, a nobleman who managed all his affairs, and say: “Well, well, Mitenka, see that it's all nice. Right, right,” he would say, looking over the enormous, opened-out table. “The main thing's the setout. So, so ...” And, sighing selfcontentedly, he would go back to the drawing room. “Marya Lvovna Karagin with daughter!” the countess's enormous footman announced in a bass voice, coming to the door of the drawing room. The countess pondered and took a pinch from a gold snuffbox with her husband's portrait on it.

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“I'm worn out with these visits,” she said. “Well, she'll be the last I receive. She's so prim. Ask her in,” she said to the footman in a sad voice, as if to say: “Well, so finish me off.” A tall, stout, proud-looking lady and her round-faced, smiling daughter came into the room, rustling their skirts. “Chère comtesse, il y a si longtemps ... elle a été alitée, la pauvre enfant. . . au bal des * Razoumowsky ...et la comtesse Apraksine ... j'ai été si heureuse ...” women's voices were heard, interrupting each other and merging with the rustling of skirts and the moving of chairs. That sort of conversation began which is designed to last just long enough so that one can get up at the first pause, with a rustling of skirts, say, “Je suis bien charmée; la † santé de maman ... et la comtesse Apraksine,” and again, with a rustling of skirts, go back to the front hall, put on a fur coat or a cloak, and drive off. The conversation turned to the main news of the town at that time—the illness of the rich and famous beau of Catherine's time, old Count Bezukhov, and his illegitimate son Pierre, who had behaved so improperly at Anna Pavlovna Scherer's soirée. “I'm very sorry for the poor count,” said the guest. “He was in poor health to begin with, and now this distress on account of his son. It will kill him!” “What do you mean?” asked the countess, as if she did not know what the guest was talking about, though she had already heard the cause of Count Bezukhov's distress a good fifteen times. “It's modern upbringing! While still abroad,” the guest went on, “this young man was left to himself, and now in Petersburg, they say, he did such awful things that he's been banished by the police.” “You don't say!” said the countess. “He chose his acquaintances poorly,” Princess Anna Mikhailovna mixed in. “Prince Vassily's son, he and a certain Dolokhov, they say, were up to God knows what. And they've both suffered for it. Dolokhov has been broken to the ranks, and Bezukhov's son has been banished to Moscow. As for Anatole Kuragin—his father somehow hushed it up. But they did banish him from Petersburg.” “Why, what on earth did they do?” asked the countess. “They're perfect ruffians, especially Dolokhov,” said the guest. “He's the son of Marya Ivanovna Dolokhov, such a respectable lady, and what then? Can you imagine: the three of them found a bear somewhere, put it in the carnage with them, and went to the actresses. The police came running to quiet them down. They took a policeman and tied him back to back with the bear, and threw the bear into the Moika. So the bear goes swimming about with the policeman on him.” “A fine figure the policeman must have cut, ma chère,” cried the count, dying with laughter. “Ah, how terrible! What is there to laugh at, Count?” But the ladies could not help laughing themselves. “They barely managed to save the poor fellow,” the guest went on. “That's how intelligently the son of Count Kirill Vladimirovich Bezukhov amuses himself!” she added. “And I heard he was so well-bred and intelligent. There's what all this foreign upbringing leads to. I hope no one receives him here, despite his wealth. They wanted to introduce him to me. I decidedly refused: I have daughters.”

* Dear countess, it's been so long . . . she was bedridden, the poor child ... at the Razumovskys' ball. . . and the countess Apraksin ... I was so happy ... † I'm quite delighted; mama's health . . . and the countess Apraksin.

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“What makes you say this young man is so wealthy?” asked the countess, leaning away from the girls, who at once pretended they were not listening. “The man has only illegitimate children. It seems ... Pierre, too, is illegitimate.” The guest waved her hand. “He has a score of them, I should think.” Princess Anna Mikhailovna mixed into the conversation, clearly wishing to show her connections and her knowledge of all the circumstances of society. “The thing is this,” she said significantly and also in a half whisper. “Count Kirill Vladimirovich's reputation is well-known ... He's lost count of his children, but this Pierre was his favorite.” “How good-looking the old man was,” said the countess, “even last year! I've never seen a handsomer man.” “He's quite changed now,” said Anna Mikhailovna. “So, as I was about to say,” she went on, “Prince Vassily is the direct heir to the whole fortune through his wife, but the father loved Pierre very much, concerned himself with his upbringing, and wrote to the sovereign ... so that when he dies (he's so poorly that they expect it any moment, and Lorrain has come from Petersburg), no one knows who will get this enormous fortune, 25 Pierre or Prince Vassily. Forty thousand souls, and millions of roubles. I know it very well, because Prince Vassily told me himself. And Kirill Vladimirovich is my uncle twice removed through my mother. And he's Borya's godfather,” she added, as if ascribing no importance to this circumstance. “Prince Vassily came to Moscow yesterday. He's going to do some inspecting, I'm told,” said the guest. “Yes, but entre nous,”* said the countess, “it's a pretext. He's come, essentially, to see Count Kirill Vladimirovich, having learned that he was so poorly.” “However, ma chère, that was a nice stunt,” said the count and, noticing that the elder guest was not listening, he turned to the young ladies. “A fine figure that policeman cut, I imagine.” And, picturing how the policeman waved his arms, he again burst into resounding, bass-voiced laughter, which shook his whole stout body, as people laugh who always eat, and especially drink, very well. “So please do come for dinner,” he said.

VIII Silence ensued. The countess looked at the guest with a pleasant smile, without concealing, however, that she would not be upset in the least now if the guest got up and left. The guest's daughter was already smoothing her dress, looking questioningly at her mother, when suddenly from the neighboring room came the sound of several men's and women's feet running to the door, the crash of a tripped-over and fallen chair, and a thirteen-year-old girl ran in, bundling something in her short muslin skirt, and stopped in the middle of the room. It was obvious that she had run so far inadvertently, miscalculating the distance. At the same moment a student in a raspberry-colored collar,26 an officer of the guards, a fifteen-year-old girl, and a fat, red-cheeked boy in a child's jacket appeared in the doorway. The count jumped up and, swaying, spread his arms wide around the running girl. “Ah, here she is!” he shouted, laughing. “The name-day girl! Ma chère name-day girl!” “Ma chère, il y a un temps pour tout,”†' said the countess, feigning sternness. “You always spoil her, Elie,” she added to her husband.

* †

Between us. My dear, there's a time for everything.

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*

“Bonjour, ma chère, je vous félicite,” said the guest. “Quelle délicieuse enfant!” she added, turning to the mother. The dark-eyed, big-mouthed, not beautiful, but lively girl, with her child's bare shoulders popping out of her bodice from running fast, with her black ringlets all thrown back, her thin, bare arms, her little legs in lace-trimmed knickers and low shoes, was at that sweet age when a girl is no longer a child, but the child is not yet a young lady. Wriggling out of her father's arms, she ran to her mother and, paying no attention to her stern remark, buried her flushed face in her mother's lace mantilla and laughed. She laughed at something, talking fitfully about the doll she took out from under her skirt. “You see? ... My doll... Mimi... You see...” And Natasha could say no more (everything seemed funny to her). She fell on her mother and burst into such loud and ringing laughter that everyone else, even the prim guest, laughed involuntarily. “Well, off you go, off you go, you and that ugly thing!” said the mother, pushing her daughter away with feigned gruffness. “This is my younger one,” she turned to her guest. Natasha, tearing her face momentarily from her mother's lace wrap, looked up at her through tears of laughter and hid her face again. The guest, forced to admire the family scene, found it necessary to take some part in it. “Tell me, my dear,” she said, addressing Natasha, “what is this Mimi to you? Your daughter, it must be?” Natasha did not like the tone of condescension to childish talk in which the guest addressed her. She made no reply and gave the guest a serious look. Meanwhile all this younger generation—Boris, the officer, son of Princess Anna Mikhailovna; Nikolai, the student, the count's eldest son; Sonya, the count's fifteen-yearold niece; and little Petrusha, the youngest son—all settled themselves in the drawing room and obviously tried to keep within the limits of propriety the animation and gaiety which their every feature still breathed. It was clear that there in the back rooms, from which they had all come running so precipitously, the talk was merrier than the talk here about town gossip, the weather, and the comtesse Apraksine. They glanced at each other from time to time and could barely hold back their laughter. The two young men, the student and the officer, friends from childhood, were of the same age and both handsome, but they did not resemble each other. Boris was a tall, blond youth with the regular, fine features of a calm and handsome face. Nikolai was a curlyhaired young man, not very tall, and with an open expression of the face. On his upper lip a little black hair had already appeared, and his whole face expressed impetuousness and rapturousness. Nikolai blushed as soon as he came into the drawing room. One could see that he was searching for something to say and could not find it. Boris, on the other hand, got his bearings at once and told calmly, jokingly, how he had known this Mimi, the doll, when she was still a young girl, with an unspoiled nose, how she had grown old in the five years he remembered, and how her head had gotten cracked across the entire skull. Having said this, he glanced at Natasha. Natasha turned away from him, glanced at her younger brother, who, with his eyes shut tight, was shaking with soundless laughter, and, unable to hold herself back any longer, jumped down and ran out of the room as fast as her quick feet would carry her. Boris did not laugh. “I believe you also wanted to go, maman? Do you need a carriage?” he said, turning to his mother with a smile. “Yes, go, go, tell them to make ready,” she said, smiling.

*

Hello, my dear, I congratulate you ... What a delightful child!

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Boris quietly went to the door and followed Natasha out; the fat boy angrily ran after them, as if vexed at the disturbance that had interfered with his pursuits.

IX Of the young people, not including the countess's elder daughter (who was four years older than her sister and already behaved like an adult), and the young lady guest, only Nikolai and the niece Sonya remained in the drawing room. Sonya was a slender, diminutive brunette with a soft gaze shaded by long eyelashes, a thick black braid wound twice around her head, and a sallow tinge to the skin of her face and especially of her bared, lean, but gracefully muscular arms and neck. In the smoothness of her movements, the softness and suppleness of her small limbs, and her somewhat sly and reserved manner, she resembled a pretty but not yet fully formed kitten, which would one day be a lovely little cat. She evidently considered it the proper thing to show by a smile her interest in the general conversation; but, against her will, her eyes under their long, thick lashes kept looking with such passionate girlish adoration at her cousin, who was leaving for the army, that her smile could not deceive anyone for a moment, and it was clear that the little cat crouched down only in order to leap up more energetically and play with her cousin as soon as they, like Boris and Natasha, could get out of this drawing room. “Yes, ma chère,” said the old count, addressing the guest and pointing to his Nikolai. “Here his friend Boris has just been made an officer, and out of friendship he doesn't want to lag behind; he's leaving both the university and his old father: he's going into the army, ma chère. And a post had already been prepared for him in the archives and all.27 Isn't that friendship?” the count said questioningly. “Yes, they say war has been declared,” said the guest. “They've been saying it for a long time,” said the count. “Again they'll talk and talk and leave it at that. Ma chère, that's friendship!” he repeated. “He's joining the hussars.” The guest, not knowing what to say, shook her head. “Not at all out of friendship,” replied Nikolai, blushing and protesting, as if it was a shameful calumny. “It's not friendship, I simply feel a calling for military service.” He shot a glance at his cousin and the young lady guest: they both looked at him with a smile of approval. “Tonight Schubert will be dining with us, a colonel in the Pavlogradsky hussar regiment. He's been on leave here and is taking him along. What to do?” said the count, shrugging his shoulders and speaking jokingly about a matter that obviously cost him much grief. “I've already told you, papa,” said his son, “that if you don't want to let me go, I'll stay. But I know I'm not good for anything but military service; I'm not a diplomat, not a functionary, I'm unable to hide my feelings,” he said, glancing all the while with the coquetry of a handsome youth at Sonya and the young lady guest. The little cat fixed her eyes on him and seemed ready at any instant to begin playing and show all her cat nature. “Well, well, all right!” said the old count. “He keeps getting heated up. It's this Bonaparte who's turned all their heads; they all wonder how it is that from the lieutenants he landed among the emperors. Well, God grant it,” he added, not noticing the guest's mocking smile. The adults began talking about Bonaparte. Julie, Mme Karagin's daughter, turned to the young Rostov: “What a pity you weren't at the Arkharovs' on Thursday. I was bored without you,” she said, smiling tenderly at him. The flattered young man, with the coquettish smile of youth, sat closer to her and got into a separate conversation with the smiling Julie, completely unaware that his 39

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involuntary smile cut the heart of the blushing and falsely smiling Sonya with the knife of jealousy. In the middle of the conversation, he turned to look at her. Sonya gave him a passionately angry look and, barely holding back the tears in her eyes, with a false smile on her lips, got up and left the room. All of Nikolai's animation vanished. He waited for the first lull in the conversaton and with an upset face left the room to look for Sonya. “How crystal clear all these young ones' secrets are!” said Anna Mikhailovna, pointing * to Nikolai as he left. “Cousinage dangereux voisinage,” she added. “Yes,” said the countess, when the ray of sunlight that had penetrated the room with the young generation vanished, and as if answering a question no one had asked her, but which constantly preoccupied her. “So much suffering, so much anxiety endured so as to rejoice in them now! And now, too, there's really more fear than joy. One is afraid, always afraid! It's precisely the age when there are so many dangers both for girls and for boys.” “Everything depends on upbringing,” said the guest. “Yes, true for you,” the countess went on. “Up to now, thank God, I've been a friend to my children and have enjoyed their full trust,” said the countess, repeating the error of many parents who suppose that their children have no secrets from them. “I know that I'll always be my daughters' first confidente and that if Nikolenka, with his fiery character, gets up to some mischief (boys can't do without it), it still won't be the same as with these Petersburg gentlemen.” “Yes, nice, nice children,” agreed the count, who always resolved all tangled questions by finding everything nice. “Just look at him! Decided to be a hussar! Well, what do you want, ma chère!” “What a sweet creature your younger one is!” said the guest. “A ball of fire!” “Yes, a ball of fire,” said the count. “She takes after me! And what a voice! Though she's my daughter, I'll tell you the truth: she'll be a singer, another Salomoni. We've hired an Italian to teach her.” “Isn't it too early? They say it harms the voice to study at that age.” “Oh, no, not too early at all!” said the count. “How is it, then, that our mothers got married when they were twelve or thirteen?” “She's already in love with Boris now! What a one!” said the countess, smiling quietly, looking at Boris's mother, and, evidently responding to the thought that always preoccupied her, she went on: “Well, so you see, if I were strict with her, if I forbade her... God knows what they'd do on the sly” (the countess meant they would be kissing), “but now I know her every word. She'll come running to me herself in the evening and tell me everything. I may be spoiling her, but it really seems better. I was strict with the elder one.” “Yes, I was brought up quite differently,” said the elder one, the beautiful Countess Vera, smiling. But the smile did not embellish Vera's face, as usually happens; on the contrary, her face became unnatural and therefore unpleasant. The elder one, Vera, was good-looking, far from stupid, an excellent student, well-brought-up, had a pleasant voice, and what she said was correct and appropriate; but, strangely, everyone, both the guest and the countess, turned to look at her, as if wondering why she had said it, and they felt awkward. “One is always too clever with the older children, wanting to do something extraordinary,” said the guest. “There's no use denying it, ma chère! The dear countess was too clever with Vera,” said the count. “Well, so what! She still turned out nice,” he added, winking at Vera approvingly. The guests got up and left, promising to come for dinner. “What manners! They sat and sat!” said the countess, after seeing the guests off. *

Cousinhood is a dangerous neighborhood.

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X When Natasha left the drawing room and ran off, she ran no further than the conservatory. In that room she stopped, listening to the talk in the drawing room and waiting for Boris to come out. She was already growing impatient and, stamping her little foot, was about to cry because he did not come at once, when she heard the neither slow nor quick, but proper footsteps of the young man. Natasha quickly darted among the tubs of plants and hid herself. Boris stopped in the middle of the room, looking around, brushed some specks of dust off the sleeve of his uniform with his hand, and went up to a mirror, studying his handsome face. Natasha kept still, peeking from her ambush, waiting to see what he would do. He stood for some time before the mirror, smiled, and walked to the other door. Natasha was about to call him, but then changed her mind. “Let him search,” she said to herself. As soon as Boris left, the flushed Sonya came from the other door, whispering something spitefully through her tears. Natasha restrained her first impulse to rush out to her and remained in her ambush, as if under the cap of invisibility, observing what went on in the world. She experienced a special new pleasure. Sonya was whispering something and kept looking back at the door of the drawing room. Nikolai came out of that door. “Sonya! what's wrong? how can you?” said Nikolai, rushing to her. “Never mind, never mind, leave me alone!” Sonya burst into sobs. “No, I know what it is.” “So you know, and that's wonderful, and so go to her.” “So-o-onya! One word! How can you torment me and yourself so because of a fantasy?” said Nikolai, taking her hand. Sonya did not pull her hand away and stopped crying. Natasha, motionless and breathless, with shining eyes, watched from behind her ambush. “What will happen now?” she thought. “Sonya! The whole world is no use to me! You alone are everything,” said Nikolai. “I'll prove it to you.” “I don't like it when you talk like that.” “Well, then I won't, well, forgive me, Sonya!” He drew her to him and kissed her. “Ah, how nice!” thought Natasha, and when Sonya and Nikolai left the room, she went out after them and called Boris. “Boris, come here,” she said with a significant and sly air. “There's something I must tell you. Here, here,” she said and led him to the conservatory, to the place between the tubs where she had been hiding. Boris, smiling, followed her. “What is this something?” he asked. She became embarrassed, looked around, and, seeing her doll abandoned on a tub, took it in her hands. “Kiss the doll,” she said. Boris looked into her animated face with attentive, gentle eyes and said nothing. “You don't want to? Well, come here, then,” she said and went deeper among the plants and dropped her doll. “Closer, closer!” she whispered. She caught the officer by the cuffs with both hands, and her flushed face showed solemnity and fear. “And do you want to kiss me?” she whispered barely audibly, looking at him from under her eyebrows, smiling and almost weeping with excitement. Boris blushed. “You're so funny!” he said, bending down to her, blushing still more, but not undertaking anything and waiting.

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She suddenly jumped up onto a tub, becoming taller than he, embraced him with her thin, bare arms, which bent higher than his neck, and, tossing her hair back with a movement of the head, kissed him right on the lips. She slipped between the pots to the other side of the plants and stopped, her head lowered. “Natasha,” he said, “you know I love you, but...” “You're in love with me?” Natasha interrupted. “Yes, I am, but, please, let's not do like just now ... Another four years ... Then I'll ask for your hand.” Natasha reflected. “Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen ...” she said, counting on her thin little fingers. “All right! So it's settled?” And a smile of joy and reassurance lit up her animated face. “Settled!” said Boris. “Forever?” said the girl. “Till death?” And, taking him under the arm, with a happy face she slowly walked beside him to the sitting room.

XI The countess was so tired out from the visits that she ordered no one else to be received, and the porter was told simply to be sure to invite for dinner everyone who came by with congratulations. The countess wanted to talk personally with her childhood friend, Princess Anna Mikhailovna, whom she had not seen properly since her return from Petersburg. Anna Mikhailovna, with her weepy and pleasant face, moved closer to the countess's armchair. “I'll be perfectly frank with you,” said Anna Mikhailovna. “There are few of us old friends left! That's why I cherish your friendship so much.” Anna Mikhailovna looked at Vera and stopped. The countess pressed her friend's hand. “Vera,” said the countess, turning to her older daughter, obviously not her favorite. “How is it you have no notion of anything? Can't you feel that you're not needed here? Go to your sisters, or...” The beautiful Vera smiled disdainfully, apparently not feeling the slightest offense. “If you had told me long ago, mama, I would have left at once,” she said and went to her room. But, passing through the sitting room, she noticed two couples sitting symmetrically by the two windows. She stopped and smiled disdainfully. Sonya was sitting close to Nikolai, who was writing out some verses for her, the first he had ever written. Boris and Natasha were sitting by the other window and fell silent when Vera came in. Sonya and Natasha looked at Vera with guilty and happy faces. It was amusing and touching to look at these enamoured girls, but the sight of them evidently did not arouse any pleasant feelings in Vera. “How many times have I asked you not to take my things,” she said. “You have a room of your own.” She took the inkstand from Nikolai. “Just a moment,” he said, dipping his pen. “You manage to do everything at the wrong time,” said Vera. “The way you came running into the drawing room just now, everyone was ashamed of you.” In spite of, or precisely because of, the fact that what she said was perfectly correct, no one answered her, and the four only exchanged glances with each other. She lingered in the room, with the inkstand in her hand. “And what secrets can there be at your age between Natasha and Boris and between you two? It's all silliness!”

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“Well, what does it matter to you, Vera?” Natasha said pleadingly in a quiet little voice. Clearly, that day she was being kinder and more affectionate with everyone than ever. “Very silly,” said Vera. “I'm ashamed of you. Why secrets?” “We all have our secrets. We don't bother you and Berg,” Natasha said, flaring up. “Of course you don't,” said Vera, “because there can never be anything bad in my actions. But I shall tell mama how you behave with Boris.” “Natalya Ilyinichna behaves very well with me,” said Boris. “I can't complain,” he said. “Stop it, Boris, you're such a diplomat” (the word diplomat was much in vogue among children in that special sense they endowed it with); “it's even boring,” Natasha said in an offended, trembling voice. “Why is she pestering me?” “You'll never understand it,” she said, turning to Vera, “because you've never loved anybody, you have no heart, you're just a Madame de Genlis” (this nickname, considered very offensive, had been given to Vera by Nikolai), “and your highest pleasure is to do unpleasant things to others. Go and flirt with Berg as much as you like,” she said quickly. “I certainly won't go running after a young man in front of guests...” “Well, she's done it,” Nikolai mixed in, “she's said unpleasant things to everybody and upset everybody. Let's go to the nursery.” All four, like a frightened flock of birds, got up and left. “They said unpleasant things to me, but I said nothing to anybody,” said Vera. “Madame de Genlis, Madame de Genlis!” laughing voices said behind the door. The beautiful Vera, who had such an irritating, unpleasant effect on everyone, smiled and, apparently untouched by what had been said to her, went up to the mirror and straightened her scarf and hair. Looking at her beautiful face, she appeared to become even colder and calmer. In the drawing room the conversation was still going on. “Ah! chère,” said the countess, “in my life, too, tout n'est pas rose. Don't I see that, du train que nous allons,* our fortune won't last long! It's all his club and his kindness. Our life life in the country—is that any respite? Theater, hunting, God knows what. Ah, why talk about me! Well, how did you arrange it all? I often marvel at you, Annette, how at your age you can gallop off in a carriage, by yourself, to Moscow, to Petersburg, to all the ministers, to all the nobility, and you know how to deal with them all—I marvel at it! Well, how did it get arranged? I don't know how to do any of it.” “Ah, my dear heart!” Princess Anna Mikhailovna replied. “God forbid that you ever learn how hard it is to be left a widow without support and with a son whom you love to distraction. One learns everything,” she went on with a certain pride. “My lawsuit has † taught me. If I need to see one of these trumps, I write a note: 'Princesse une telle wishes to see so and so'—and I go in person, in a hired cab two, even three times, even four—until I get what I want. It's all the same to me what they think of me.” “Well, whom did you solicit for Borenka?” asked the countess. “Here your son is an officer in the guards, and Nikolushka is going as a junker.28 There's no one to solicit. Who did you ask?” “Prince Vassily. He was very nice, He agreed at once to do everything and reported to the emperor,” Princess Anna Mikhailovna said with rapture, forgetting entirely about all the humiliation she had gone through to achieve her goal.

* †

... all is not rosy ... at the rate we're going... Princess So-and-So.

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“And what, has he aged, Prince Vassily?” asked the countess. “I haven't seen him since our theater performances at the Rumyantsevs'. And I suppose he's forgotten me. Il me faisait la cour,”* the countess remembered with a smile. “He's the same as ever,” replied Anna Mikhailovna, “amiable, overflowing. Les grandeurs ne lui ont pas tourné la tète de tout.† 'I'm sorry I can do so little for you, dear Princess,' he says to me, 'I'm yours to command.' No, he's a nice man, and excellent family. But you know my love for my son, Nathalie. I don't know what I wouldn't do for his happiness. And my circumstances are so bad,” Anna Mikhailovna went on sadly, lowering her voice, “so bad that I'm now in a most terrible position. My wretched lawsuit eats up all I have and doesn't get anywhere. Can you imagine, I don't have even ten kopecks à la ‡ lettre, and I don't know how I'll pay to equip Boris.” She took out a handkerchief and began to cry. “I need five hundred roubles, and all I have is one twenty-five-rouble note. I'm in such a position ... My only hope now rests with Count Kirill Alexandrovich Bezukhov. If he doesn't care to support his godson—he's Borya's godfather—and lay out something for his maintenance, all my troubles will have been in vain, I won't have the money to equip him.” The countess also waxed tearful and silently pondered something. “I often think—maybe it's sinful,” said the princess, “but I often think: here Count Kirill Vladimirovich Bezukhov lives alone ... this enormous fortune ... and what does he live for? Life's a burden to him, and Borya is only beginning to live.” “He'll surely leave Boris something,” said the countess. “God knows, chère amie! These rich courtiers are such egoists. But even so I'll go to him now with Boris and tell him outright what it's about. Let them think whatever they like of me, it really makes no difference to me, when my son's destiny depends on it. “The princess got up. “It's now two o'clock, and you dine at four. I have time to go.” And with the air of a practical Petersburg lady who knows how to make use of her time, Anna Mikhailovna sent for her son and went out with him to the front hall. “Good-bye, dear heart,” she said to the countess, who came to see her to the door; “wish me success,” she added in a whisper, so that her son would not hear. “Are you going to see Count Kirill Vladimirovich, ma chère?” the count asked from the dining room, also coming out to the front hall. “If he's better, invite Pierre to dine with us. He used to come here, danced with the children. Invite him without fail, ma chère. Well, we'll see how Taras distinguishes himself today. He says that Count Orlov had no such dinners as we're going to have.”

XII “Mon cher Boris,” Princess Anna Mikhailovna said to her son when Countess Rostov's 29 carriage, in which they were sitting, drove down the straw-laid street and into the wide courtyard of Count Kirill Vladimirovich Bezukhov. “Mon cher Boris,” said the mother, freeing her hand from under her old mantle and placing it with a timid and caressing movement on her son's hand, “be gentle, be attentive. Count Kirill Vladimirovich is, after all, your godfather, and your future fate depends on him. Remember that, mon cher, be nice, as you know how to be...” “If I knew anything would come of it besides humiliation ...” her son replied coldly. “But I've promised you, and I'm doing it for you.” Despite the fact that someone's carriage was standing at the entrance, the porter, having looked over the mother and son (who, without asking to be announced, had walked He once courted me. Grandeurs haven't turned his head at all. ‡ Literally. *

†

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directly through the glass entryway between two rows of statues in niches), with a significant glance at the old mantle, asked whom they wanted to see, the princesses or the count, and, on learning that it was the count, said that his excellency was feeling worse that day, and that his excellency was not receiving anyone. “We can leave,” the son said in French. “Mon ami!” the mother said in a pleading voice, again touching her son's hand as if this touch could calm or encourage him. Boris fell silent and, without taking off his overcoat, looked questioningly at his mother. “Dearest,” Anna Mikhailovna said in a tender little voice, turning to the porter, “I know Count Kirill Vladimirovich is very ill ... that's why I've come ... I'm a relation ... I won't trouble anyone, dearest... All I need is to see Prince Vassily Sergeevich: he is staying here, I believe. Announce us, please.” The porter sullenly pulled the bell rope that rang upstairs and turned away. “Princess Drubetskoy to see Prince Vassily Sergeevich,” he called out to the servant in stockings, shoes, and a tailcoat, who had come running down and was now peering from the turn of the stairway. The mother smoothed the folds of her re-dyed silk dress, looked in a full-length Venetian mirror on the wall, and, in her down-at-heel shoes, went briskly up the carpet of the stairs. “Mon cher, vous m'avez promis,”* she addressed her son again, touching his hand to encourage him. The son, lowering his eyes, calmly followed after her. They entered a large room, in which one door led to the apartment assigned to Prince Vassily. As the mother and son reached the middle of the room, intending to ask their way from an old servant who had jumped up when they came in, the bronze handle of one of the doors turned, and Prince Vassily, in an informal velvet house jacket, with one star, came out, accompanying a handsome dark-haired man. This man was the famous Petersburg doctor, Lorrain. “C'est donc positif?”† the prince was saying. “Mon prince, 'errare humanum est,' mais...”‡ the doctor replied, swallowing his r's and pronouncing the Latin words with a French accent. § “C'est bien, c'est bien...” Noticing Anna Mikhailovna and her son, Prince Vassily dismissed the doctor with a bow and silently, but with a questioning look, came over to them. The son noticed how deep grief suddenly appeared in his mother's eyes and smiled slightly. “Yes, Prince, we meet here under such sad circumstances ... Well, how is our dear patient?” she said, as if oblivious of the cold, insulting gaze directed at her. Prince Vassily looked questioningly, to the point of bewilderment, at her, then at Boris. Boris bowed courteously. Prince Vassily, without responding to the bow, turned to Anna Mikhailovna and replied to her question with a movement of the head and lips signifying the worst hopes for the patient. “Can it be?” exclaimed Anna Mikhailovna. “Ah, it's terrible! I'm afraid to think ... This is my son,” she added, pointing to Boris. “He wanted to thank you himself.” Boris once more bowed courteously. My dear, you promised me. So it's positive? ‡ My prince, “to err is human,” but... § Very well, very well. *

†

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“Believe me, Prince, a mother's heart will never forget what you have done for us.” “I'm glad that I could give you pleasure, my dearest Anna Mikhailovna,” said Prince Vassily, straightening his jabot and in his gesture and voice displaying here, in Moscow, before the patronized Anna Mikhailovna, far greater importance than in Petersburg, at Annette Scherer's soirée. “Try to serve well and be worthy,” he added, sternly addressing Boris. “I'm glad ... You're here on leave?” he dictated in his passionless tone. “Awaiting orders, Your Excellency, to be dispatched to my new assignment,” replied Boris, showing neither vexation at the prince's abrupt tone, nor the wish to get into conversation, but so calmly and deferentially that the prince looked at him intently. “You live with your mother?” “I live at the countess Rostov's,” said Boris, again adding, “Your Excellency.” “It's that Ilya Rostov who married Nathalie Shinshin,” said Anna Mikhailovna. “I know, I know,” said Prince Vassily in his monotone voice. “Je n'ai jamais pu concevoir comment Natalie s'est décidée à épouser cet ours mal-léché! Un personnage complètement stupide et ridicule. Et joueur à ce qu'on dit.”* “Mais très brave homme, mon prince,”† observed Anna Mikhailovna, smiling touchingly, as though she, too, knew that Count Rostov deserved such an opinion, but begged for pity on the poor old man. “What do the doctors say?” the princess asked after a brief pause and again showing great sorrow on her weepy face. “There's little hope,” said the prince. “And I wished so much to thank Uncle for all his benefactions to me and to Borya. ‡ C'est son filleul,” she added in such a tone, as though this news was to make Prince Vassily Vassily extremely glad. Prince Vassily pondered and winced. Anna Mikhailovna understood that he feared to find in her a rival over Count Bezukhov's will. She hastened to reassure him. “If it weren't for my true love and devotion to Uncle,” she said, uttering this word with special assurance and casualness, “I know his character, noble, direct, but there are just the princesses around him ... They're still young ...” She inclined her head and added in a whisper: “Has he fulfilled his last duty,30 Prince? How precious these last moments are! It cannot get any worse; he must be prepared, if he's so poorly. We women,” she smiled tenderly, “always know how to say these things, Prince. I must see him. However hard it is for me, by now I'm used to suffering.” The prince apparently realized, as at Annette Scherer's soirée, that it was difficult to get rid of Anna Mikhailovna. “This meeting might be hard on him, chère Anna Mikhailovna,” he said. “Let's wait till evening; the doctors have predicted a crisis.” “But we cannot wait, Prince, at such a moment. Pensez, il y va du salut de son âme ... Ah! c'est terrible, les devoirs d'un chrétien ...”§ The door to the inner rooms opened and one of the young princesses—the count's nieces—came out, with a cold and sullen face and a long waist strikingly out of proportion with her legs. Prince Vassily turned to her. “Well, how is he?” * I've never been able to conceive how Nathalie decided to marry that unkempt bear! A completely stupid and ridiculous personage. And a gambler from what they say. † But a very nice man, my prince. ‡ He's his godson. § Think, it's a question of the salvation of his soul... Ah! it's terrible, the duties of a Christian ...

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“The same. And, like it or not, this noise , , ,” said the princess, looking Anna Mikhailovna over like a stranger. “Ah, chère, je ne vous reconnaissais pas,” Anna Mikhailovna said with a happy smile, approaching the count's niece at a light amble. “Je viens d'arriver et je suis à vous pour vous * aider à soigner mon oncle. J'imagine combien vous avez souffert,” she added, rolling up her eyes sympathetically. The princess made no reply, did not even smile, and left at once. Anna Mikhailovna took off her gloves and settled into a hard-won position in an armchair, inviting Prince Vassily to sit down beside her. “Boris!” she said to her son and smiled. “I'll go to the count, my uncle, and meanwhile you go to Pierre, mon ami, and don't forget to convey to him the invitation from the Rostovs. They're inviting him to dinner. He won't go, I suppose?” she turned to the prince. “On the contrary,” said the prince, now plainly out of sorts. “Je serais très content si vous me débarassez de ce jeune homme ...† He just sits here. The count has never once asked about him.” He shrugged his shoulders. The servant led the young man down and up another stairway to Pyotr Kirillovich.

XIII Pierre had not managed to choose a career for himself in Petersburg, and had indeed been banished to Moscow for riotous behavior. The story told at Count Rostov's was true. Pierre had taken part in tying the policeman to the bear. He had arrived several days ago and was staying, as usual, at his father's house. Though he supposed that his story was already known in Moscow, and that the ladies who surrounded his father, always illdisposed towards him, would have used this chance to rile the count, he nevertheless went to his father's part of the house the day he arrived. On entering the drawing room, where the princesses were usually to be found, he greeted the ladies, who were sitting over their embroidery and a book, which one of them was reading aloud. There were three of them. The eldest, a neat, long-waisted, stern young lady, the one who had come out to Anna Mikhailovna, was reading; the younger ones, both red-cheeked and pretty, differing from each other only in that one had a mole above her lip, which was very becoming to her, were doing embroidery. Pierre was met like a dead man or a leper. The eldest princess interrupted her reading and silently stared at him with frightened eyes; the younger one, without the mole, assumed exactly the same expression; the youngest, with the mole, of a merry, laughter-prone character, bent over her embroidery frame to hide a smile, probably evoked by the forthcoming scene, which she foresaw would be amusing. She drew the woollen thread through and bent down as if studying the design, barely able to keep from laughing. “Bonjour, ma cousine,” said Pierre. “Vous ne me reconnaissez pas?”‡ “I recognize you only too well, only too well.” “How is the count's health? May I see him?” Pierre asked awkwardly, as usual, but without embarrassment. “The count is suffering both physically and morally, and it seems you have taken care to cause him as much moral suffering as possible.” “May I see the count?” Pierre repeated. * Ah, dear, I didn't recognize you ... I've just come and I'm at your service to help you look after my uncle. I can imagine how much you've suffered. † I would be very happy if you would rid me of this young man . . . ‡ Hello, cousin. Don't you recognize me?

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“Hm! ... If you want to kill him, to kill him outright, you may see him. Olga, go and see whether uncle's bouillon is ready, it's soon time,” she added, thereby showing Pierre that they were busy, and busy comforting his father, while he was obviously only busy upsetting him, Olga went out. Pierre stood looking at the sisters for a while and, bowing, said: “I'll go to my room, then. Tell me when I can see him.” He went out, and the ringing, though not loud, laughter of the sister with the mole could be heard behind him. The next day Prince Vassily came and settled in the count's house. He summoned Pierre and said to him: “Mon cher, si vous vous conduisez ici, comme à Petersburg, vous finirez très mal; c'est tout ce je vous dis.* The count is very, very ill: you must not see him at all.” Since then Pierre had not been disturbed, and he spent whole days alone upstairs in his room. When Boris came in, Pierre was pacing his room, stopping now and then in the corners, making threatening gestures to the wall, as if piercing the invisible enemy with a sword, and looking sternly over his spectacles, and then starting his promenade again, uttering vague words, shrugging his shoulders, and spreading his arms. “L'Angleterre a vécu,” he said, frowning and pointing his finger at someone. “Monsieur † Pitt comme traitre à la nation et au droit des gens est condamné à... » —he did not have time to finish Pitt's sentence, imagining at that moment that he was Napoleon himself and with his hero had already carried out the dangerous crossing of the Pas de Calais and conquered London, before he saw a young, trim, and handsome officer come into his room. He stopped. Pierre had left Boris a fourteen-year-old boy and had decidedly no recollection of him; but, despite that, with the quick and cordial manner proper to him, he took his hand and smiled amiably. “Do you remember me?” Boris said quietly, with a pleasant smile. “I've come to see the count with my mother, but it seems he's not entirely well.” “Yes, it seems he's unwell. They keep disturbing him,” Pierre replied, trying to recall who this young man was. Boris felt that Pierre did not recognize him, but he did not consider it necessary to give his name, and, not feeling the least embarrassed, looked him straight in the eye. “Count Rostov invites you to dinner today,” he said after a rather long silence, which was awkward for Pierre. “Ah! Count Rostov!” Pierre began joyfully. “So you're his son Ilya? Can you imagine, I didn't recognize you at first. Remember, we used to go to the Sparrow Hills with Madame Jacquot... long ago.” “You are mistaken,” Boris said unhurriedly, with a bold and slightly mocking smile. “I am Boris, the son of Princess Anna Mikhailovna Drubetskoy. The Rostov father is called Ilya, the son is Nikolai. And I never knew any Madame Jacquot.” Pierre waved his hands and head, as if he was being attacked by mosquitoes or bees. “Ah, well, how about that! I got everything confused. There are so many relations in Moscow! You're Boris... yes. So we've finally straightened it out. Well, what do you think of the Boulogne expedition? Won't the English be in trouble if Napoleon crosses the channel? 31 I think the expedition is very important. If only Villeneuve doesn't botch it!”

* My dear, if you behave yourself here as you did in Petersburg, you will end very badly; that is all I can say to you. † England has had its day... Mister Pitt, as a traitor to the nation and to the right of nations, is condemned to ...

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Boris knew nothing about the Boulogne expedition; he did not read the newspapers, and was hearing about Villeneuve for the first time. “Here in Moscow we're more taken up with dinners and gossip than with politics,” he said in his calm, mocking tone. “I neither know nor think about any of it. Moscow is taken up with gossip most of all,” he went on. “Now the talk is about you and the count.” Pierre smiled his kindly smile, as if fearing that his interlocutor might say something he would then regret. But Boris spoke distinctly, clearly, drily, looking Pierre straight in the eye. “Moscow has nothing else to do but gossip,” he went on. “Everyone's concerned about whom the count will leave his fortune to, though maybe he'll outlive us all, which is my heartfelt wish...” “Yes, it's all very painful,” Pierre picked up, “very painful.” Pierre kept fearing that this officer would accidentally fall into a conversation awkward for himself. “And it must seem to you,” Boris said, blushing slightly, but without changing his voice or pose, “it must seem to you that all everyone is concerned with is getting something out of the rich man.” “Here we go,” thought Pierre. “But I precisely wish to tell you, so as to avoid misunderstandings, that you are greatly mistaken if you count my mother and me among those people. We're very poor, but I can speak for myself at least: precisely because your father is rich, I don't consider myself his relation, and neither I nor my mother will ever ask for or accept anything from him.” Pierre could not understand for a long time, but when he did, he jumped up from the sofa, seized Boris's arm from below with his peculiar quickness and awkwardness, and, turning much more red than Boris, began speaking with a mixed feeling of shame and vexation: “How strange! Did I ever ... and who could think ... I know very well...” But Boris interrupted him again: “I'm glad I've spoken it all out. Maybe it's unpleasant for you, you must excuse me,” he said, reassuring Pierre instead of being reassured by him, “but I hope I haven't offended you. I make it a rule to say everything directly ... What shall I tell them, then? Will you come to the Rostovs' for dinner?” And Boris, obviously relieving himself of a painful duty, getting out of an awkward situation himself, and putting another man in one, again became perfectly pleasant. “No, listen,” said Pierre, calming down. “You're a surprising man. What you just said is good, very good. Of course, you don't know me. We haven't met for so long ... since we were children ... You may suppose that I... I understand you, understand you very well. I wouldn't have done it, I wouldn't have courage enough, but it's beautiful. I'm very glad to have made your acquaintance. It's strange,” he added, after a pause, and smiling, “what you supposed of me!” He laughed. “Well, so what? We'll become better acquainted. If you please.” He shook Boris's hand. “You know, I haven't once been to see the count. He hasn't sent for me ... I pity him as a human being ... But what to do?” “And you think Napoleon will manage to send the army across?” Boris asked, smiling. Pierre understood that Boris wanted to change the subject, and, agreeing with him, began to explain the advantages and disadvantages of the Boulogne undertaking. A lackey came to summon Boris to the princess. The princess was leaving. Pierre promised to come for dinner, in order to become closer with Boris, pressed his hand hard, looked him affectionately in the eye through his spectacles ... After his departure, Pierre spent a long time pacing the room, no longer piercing the invisible enemy with his sword, but smiling at the memory of this nice, intelligent, and firm young man.

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As happens in early youth, and especially when one is alone, he felt a gratuitous tenderness for this young man and promised himself to be sure to become friends with him. Prince Vassily was seeing the princess off. The princess was holding a handkerchief to her eyes, and her face was all in tears. “It's terrible! terrible!” she was saying. “But whatever it costs me, I will fulfill my duty. I will come to spend the night. He can't be left like that. Every minute is precious. I don't understand why the princesses keep delaying. Maybe God will help me find the means to prepare him ... Adieu, mon prince, que le bon Dieu vous soutienne ...”* † “Adieu, ma bonne, “ Prince Vassily replied, turning away from her. “Ah, he's in a terrible state,” the mother said to the son, as they were getting back into the carriage. “He hardly recognizes anyone.” “I don't understand, mama, what is his attitude towards Pierre?” asked the son. “It will all be spelled out in the will; our fate, too, depends on it...” “But why do you think he'll leave us anything?” “Ah, my friend! He's so rich, and we're so poor!” “Well, that's still not enough of a reason, Mama.” “Ah, my God! my God! he's so ill!” the mother exclaimed.

XIV When Anna Mikhailoyna and her son left for Count Kirill Vladimirovich Bezu-khov's, Countess Rostov sat for a long time alone, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. Finally she rang. “What's wrong, dear,” she said crossly to the girl, who made her wait a few minutes. “You don't want to serve me? Then I'll find another place for you, miss.” The countess was upset by her friend's woes and humiliating poverty, and was therefore out of sorts, which always expressed itself in her calling the maid “dear” and “miss.” “Beg pardon, ma'am,” said the maid. “Ask the count to come to me.” The count, waddling, approached his wife with a somewhat guilty look, as he always did. “Well, my little countess! what a sauté au madère of hazel grouse we'll have, ma chère! I sampled it. Not for nothing did I pay a thousand roubles for Taraska. He's worth it!” He sat down by his wife, resting his elbows dashingly on his knees and ruffling his gray hair. “What are your orders, little countess!” “The thing is, my friend—what's this stain you've got there?” she said, pointing to his waistcoat. “Must be the sauté,” she added, smiling. “The thing is, Count, that I need money.” Her face grew sad. “Ah, little countess! ...” And the count began fussing, pulling out his wallet. “I need a lot, Count, I need five hundred rubles.” And, taking out a cambric handkerchief, she began rubbing her husband's waistcoat. “Just a moment. Hey, you there!” he cried in a voice such as people use who are sure that those they call will come rushing to them. “Send Mitenka to me!”

* †

Good-bye, my prince, may the good lord sustain you . . . Good-bye, my good one.

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Mitenka, that nobleman's son, brought up by the count, who now managed all his affairs, came into the room with quiet steps. “The thing is, my dear ...” the count said to the deferential young man as he came in. “Bring me ...” He pondered. “Yes, yes, seven hundred roubles. And see that you don't bring torn and dirty ones like the other time, but nice ones, for the countess.” “Yes, Mitenka, please, be sure they're clean,” said the countess, sighing sadly. “When shall I bring it, Your Excellency?” asked Mitenka. “Allow me to tell you that. . . However, please don't worry,” he added, noticing that the count was beginning to breathe heavily and quickly, which was always a sign of incipient wrath. “I almost forgot... Shall I deliver it this minute?” “Yes, yes, right, bring it. Give it to the countess.” “He's pure gold, my Mitenka,” the count added, smiling, when the young man went out. “Nothing's ever impossible. I can't stand that. Everything's possible.” “Ah, money, Count, money—there's so much grief in the world because of it!” said the countess. “But I need this money very badly.” “You, my dear countess, are a notorious spendthrift,” said the count, and, kissing his wife's hand, he went back to his study. When Anna Mikhailovna came back from Bezukhov's, the money was already lying before the countess, all in new notes, under a handkerchief on a little table, and Anna Mikhailovna noticed that something was troubling the countess. “Well, my friend?” asked the countess. “Ah, he's in such a terrible state! You wouldn't recognize him, he's so poorly, so poorly; I stayed only a minute and didn't say two words...” “Annette, for God's sake, don't refuse me,” the countess said suddenly, blushing, which was quite strange with her thin, dignified, and no longer young face, and taking the money from under the handkerchief. Anna Mikhailovna instantly realized what it was about and bent forward so as to embrace the countess adroitly at the right moment. “This is for Boris from me, to have his uniform made...” Anna Mikhailovna was already embracing her and weeping. The countess was also weeping. They wept because they were friends; and because they were kind; and because they, who had been friends since childhood, were concerned with such a mean subject— money; and because their youth was gone ... But for both of them they were pleasant tears ...

XV Countess Rostov, with her daughters and an already large number of guests, was sitting in the drawing room. The count led the male guests to his study, to offer them his prize collection of Turkish pipes. From time to time he came out and asked whether she had come yet. They were expecting Marya Dmitrievna Akhrosimov, known in society as le terrible dragon, a lady famous neither for her wealth nor for her rank, but for her directness of mind and frank simplicity of manners. Marya Dmitrievna was known to the tsar's family, was known to all Moscow and all Petersburg, and both cities, astonished at her, chuckled secretly at her rudeness and told anecdotes about her; nevertheless, everyone without exception respected and feared her. In the smoke-filled study the conversation turned to the war, which had been 32 declared in the manifesto, and to recruitment. No one had read the manifesto yet, but everyone knew of its appearance. The count sat on an ottoman between two smoking and talking neighbors, The count himself neither smoked nor talked, but, inclining his head now to one side, now to the other, looked with obvious pleasure at the smokers and listened to the conversation of his two neighbors, whom he had set on each other. 51

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One of the talkers was a civilian with a wrinkled, bilious, gaunt, and cleanshaven face, a man approaching old age, though dressed like a most fashionable young man; he sat with his feet on the ottoman, looking like a familiar of the house, the amber bit deep in the side of his mouth, impetuously sucking in smoke and squinting. This was the old bachelor Shinshin, the countess's cousin, a wicked tongue, as the talk went in Moscow drawing rooms. He seemed to be condescending to his interlocutor. The other, a fresh, pink officer of the guards, impeccably scrubbed, combed, and buttoned-up, held the amber bit in the middle of his mouth and drew the smoke in lightly with his pink lips, letting it out of his handsome mouth in rings. This was that Lieutenant Berg, an officer of the Semyonovsky regiment, with whom Boris was going off to join the regiment, and whom Natasha, teasing Vera, her older sister, called her fiancé. The count sat between them and listened attentively. For the count, the most agreeable occupation, apart from the game of Boston, which he liked very much, was the position of listener, especially when he managed to set two garrulous interlocutors on each other. “Well, what then, old boy, mon très honorable Alphonse Karlych,” said Shinshin, chuckling and combining (which was a peculiarity of his speech) the simplest popular Russian expressions with refined French phrases. “Vous comptez vous faire des rentes sur l'état,* you want to get a little something from your company?” “No, Pyotr Nikolaevich, I merely wish to prove, sir, that the cavalry is much less profitable than the infantry. Now look, Pyotr Nikolaevich, just consider my position.” Berg always spoke very precisely, calmly, and courteously. His conversation was always concerned with himself alone; he always kept calmly silent when the talk was about something that had no direct relation to himself. And he could be silent like that for several hours, without experiencing in himself or causing in others the slightest embarrassment. But as soon as the conversation concerned him personally, he began to speak expansively and with obvious pleasure. “Consider my position, Pyotr Nikolaich: if I were in the cavalry, I'd get no more than two hundred roubles every four months, even with the rank of sub lieutenant; while now I get two hundred and thirty,” he said with a joyful, pleasant smile, looking at Shinshin and the count as though it was obvious to him that his success would always constitute the chief goal of everyone else's desires. “Besides that, Pyotr Nikolaevich, in transferring to the guards, I am in view,” Berg went on, “and vacancies in the foot guards are much more frequent. Then, consider for yourself how I'm able to get along on two hundred and thirty rubles. Yet I save some and also send some to my father,” he went on, letting out a smoke ring. “La balance y est... A German can make cheese from chalk, comme dit le proverbe,”† said Shinshin, shifting the amber to the other side of his mouth, and he winked at the count. The count burst out laughing. Other guests, seeing that Shinshin was conducting a conversation, came over to listen. Berg, oblivious of both the mockery and the indifference, went on to tell how he, by being transferred to the guards, was already one rank ahead of his comrades in the corps, how in wartime the company commander might be killed, and he, remaining the senior in the company, could very easily become the commander, and how everyone in the regiment liked him, and how his papa was pleased with him. Berg apparently enjoyed telling about it all and seemed not to suspect that other people might also have their interests. But everything he told about was so nice, so earnest, the naïveté of his youthful egoism was so obvious, that his listeners were disarmed. * †

You are counting on getting an income from the state. There you have it... as the proverb says.

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“Well, old boy, infantry or cavalry, you'll make it anywhere; that I prophesy to you,” said Shinshin, patting him on the shoulder and lowering his feet from the ottoman. Berg smiled joyfully. The count, and his guests after him, went to the drawing room. It was that time before a formal dinner when the assembled guests refrain from beginning a long conversation, expecting to be called to the hors d'oeuvres, but at the same time consider it necessary to move about and not be silent, in order to show that they are not at all impatient to sit down at the table. The hosts keep glancing at the door and occasionally exchange glances with each other. The guests try to guess from these glances who or what they are Still waiting for: an important belated relation or a dish that is not ready yet. Pierre arrived just before dinner and sat awkwardly in the middle of the drawing room, in the first armchair he happened upon, getting in everyone's way. The countess wanted to get him to talk, but he looked around naively through his spectacles, as if searching for someone, and gave monosyllabic answers to all the countess's questions. He was an inconvenience and was the only one not to notice it. The majority of the guests, knowing his story with the bear, looked curiously at this big, fat, and placid man, wondering how such a clumsy and shy fellow could perform such a stunt with a policeman. “Did you arrive recently?” the countess asked him. “Oui, madame,” he replied, looking around. “Have you seen my husband?” “Non, madame.” He smiled quite inappropriately. “It seems you were recently in Paris? I suppose it was very interesting.” “Very interesting.” The countess exchanged glances with Anna Mikhailovna. Anna Mikhailovna understood that she was being asked to take up this young man, and sitting beside him, she began speaking of his father; but, as with the countess, he gave her nothing but monosyllabic answers. The guests were all taken up with each other. “Les Razoumovsky ... Ça a été charmant... Vous êtes bien bonne ... La comtesse * Apraksine ...” was heard on all sides. The countess got up and went to the reception room. “Marya Dmitrievna?” her voice was heard from there. “Herself,” a rough female voice was heard in reply, after which Marya Dmitrievna came into the room. All the girls and even the ladies, except for the oldest ones, rose. Marya Dmitrievna stood in the doorway and, from the height of her corpulent body, her fifty-year-old head with its gray curled hair held high, looked over the guests, and unhurriedly straightened the wide sleeves of her dress, as if pushing them up. Marya Dmitrievna always spoke in Russian. “Congratulations to the dear name-day lady and her children,” she said in her loud, dense voice, which overwhelmed all other noises. “And you, you old sinner,” she turned to the count, who was kissing her hand, “I bet you're bored in Moscow? No chasing about with dogs here? Nothing to be done, old boy, look how these birdies are growing up.” She pointed to the girls. “Like it or not, you'll have to hunt for suitors.” “Well, how's my Cossack?” (Marya Dmitrievna called Natasha a Cossack), she said, caressing Natasha, who came up to kiss her hand fearlessly and merrily. “I know she's a wicked girl, but I love her.” She took from her enormous reticule a pair of pear-shaped ruby earrings and, having given them to the festively radiant and red-cheeked Natasha, turned away at once and addressed Pierre. *

The Razumovskys . . . That was charming . . . You are very kind . . . The countess Apraksin ...

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“E-eh! my gallant! come here to me!” she said in a falsely quiet and high voice. “Come here to me, my gallant...” And she menacingly pushed her sleeves up still higher. Pierre approached, gazing at her naively through his spectacles. “Come on, come on, my gallant! I was the only one to tell your father the truth when chance smiled on him,33 and to you, too, God willing.” She paused. Everyone fell silent, waiting for what would happen and feeling that this was only the preface. “A fine one, to say the least! a fine lad! ... His father's lying on his deathbed, and he's having fun, sitting a policeman on the back of a bear! Shame on you, old boy, shame on you! You'd do better to go to the war.” She turned away and offered her arm to the count, who could barely keep from laughing. “Well, so, I suppose it's to table?” said Marya Dmitrievna. The count went first with Marya Dmitrievna; then came the countess, led by a hussar colonel, a useful man, with whom Nikolai was to overtake his regiment, and Anna Mikhailovna with Shinshin. Berg offered his arm to Vera. The smiling Julie Karagin went to the table with Nikolai. After them came other couples, stretching the whole length of the room, and behind them all the children, tutors, and governesses came singly. Servants bustled about, chairs scraped, music began playing in the gallery, and the guests seated themselves. The sounds of the count's household music were replaced by the sounds of knives and forks, the talk of the guests, the soft footsteps of the servants. At the head of the table on one end sat the countess. To her right Marya Dmitrievna, to her left Anna Mikhailovna and the other ladies. At the other end sat the count, to his left the hussar colonel, to his right Shinshin and the other male guests. One side of the long table was occupied by the older young people: Vera sat next to Berg, Pierre next to Boris; on the other side were the children, tutors, and governesses. From behind the crystal, the bottles, and the bowls of fruit, the count kept glancing at his wife and her tall cap with blue ribbons, and diligently poured wine for his neighbors, not forgetting himself. The countess, too, from behind the pineapples, never forgetting her duties as hostess, cast meaningful glances at her husband, the redness of whose face and bald head, it seemed to her, contrasted sharply with his gray hair. At the ladies' end a steady chatter went on; at the men's, louder and louder voices could be heard, especially that of the hussar colonel, who ate and drank so much, growing redder and redder, that the count now set him as an example to the other guests. Berg was saying to Vera, with a tender smile, that love was a heavenly, not an earthly, feeling. Boris was naming the guests at the table for his new friend Pierre, while exchanging glances with Natasha, who was sitting across from him. Pierre spoke little, looked at the new faces, and ate a lot. Starting with the two soups, of * which he chose à la tortue, and the savory pie, and right up to the hazel grouse, he did not skip a single dish or a single wine, which the butler mysteriously displayed for him behind his neighbor's shoulder, the bottle wrapped in a napkin, murmuring: “dry Madeira,” or “Hungarian,” or “Rhine wine.” Of the four crystal glasses with the count's monogram that stood before each place, he would hold out the first he happened upon and drank with enjoyment, glancing around at the guests with a more and more pleasant air. Natasha, who was sitting across from him, gazed at Boris as a thirteen-year-old girl gazes at a boy she has just kissed for the first time and is in love with. She occasionally turned this same gaze to Pierre, and, under the gaze of this funny, lively girl, he wanted to laugh himself, without knowing why.

*

Turtle.

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Nikolai sat far away from Sonya, next to Julie Karagin, and again was saying something to her with an involuntary smile. Sonya smiled formally, but was clearly suffering from jealousy: she turned pale, then red, and tried as hard as she could to hear what Nikolai and Julie were saying to each other. The governess looked around anxiously, as if preparing to resist, if anyone took it into his head to offend the children. The German tutor tried to memorize all the kinds of dishes, desserts, and wines, in order to describe everything in detail in his letter to his family in Germany, and was quite offended that the butler with the napkin-wrapped bottle bypassed him. The German frowned, trying to show by his look that he did not even wish to have this wine, but was offended because no one wanted to understand that the wine was necessary for him, not in order to quench his thirst, nor out of greed, but out of a conscientious love of knowledge.

XVI At the men's end of the table, the conversation was becoming more and more animated. The colonel said that the manifesto with the declaration of war had already been published in Petersburg, and that a copy, which he had seen himself, had been delivered today by messenger to the commander in chief. “And what the deuce makes us go to war with Bonaparte?” said Shinshin. “Il a déjà rabattu le caquet à l'Autriche. Je crains que cette fois ce ne soit notre tour.”* The colonel was a tall, stout, and sanguine German, obviously a seasoned soldier and a patriot. He took offense at Shinshin's words. “Pecause, my tear sir,” he said, pronouncing the b as a p and the d as a t, “pecause the emperor knows that. He said in the manifesto that he cannot look mit intifference at the tangers that threaten Russia, and that the security of the empire, its tignity, and the sacretness of its alliances...” he said, for some reason giving special emphasis to the word alliances, as if this was the essence of the matter. And with that impeccable official memory peculiar to him, he repeated the introductory words of the manifesto: “... and the desire, which constitutes the sole and absolute aim of the sovereign, to establish peace in Europe on firm foundations, led to his present decision to move part of the army abroad and to make further efforts towards the 34 achievement of that intention.” “It's pecause of that, my tear sir,” he concluded didactically, drinking a glass of wine and looking to the count for encouragement. “Connaissez-vous le proverbe: 'Jerome, Jerome, stay close to home, keep your shovel in the loam'?” asked Shinshin, wincing and 35 smiling. “Cela nous convient à merveille. Take Suvorov —even he got beaten à plate couture, and where are our Suvorovs now? Je vous demande un peu,”† he said, constantly switching from Russian to French. “Ve must fight to the last trop of plood,” said the colonel, pounding the table, “und tii-ie for our emperor, and then all vill be veil. And reason as little as po-o-ossible” (he especially drew out the word possible), “as little as po-o-ossible,” he concluded, again addressing the count. “So ve old hussars see it, anyvay. And how to you, a young man and a young hussar, see it?” he added, turning to Nikolai, who, hearing that things had got on to the war, had abandoned his interlocutrice and was looking all eyes and listening all ears to the colonel. “I agree with you completely,” replied Nikolai, blushing all over, turning his plate and rearranging the glasses, and with such a determined and desperate air as though he was exposed right then to great danger. “I'm convinced that the Russians must either die or

* †

He has already stopped Austria's cackling. I'm afraid this time it will be our turn. Do you know the proverb . . . That suits us perfectly . . . flat as a pancake ... I ask you kindly.

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conquer,” he said, aware himself, as the others were, once the word had been spoken, that it was too rapturous and pompous for the present occasion and therefore awkward. * “C'est bien beau ce que vous venez de dire,” Julie, who was sitting next to him, said with a sigh. Sonya trembled all over and blushed to her ears, behind her ears, and down her neck and shoulders, as Nikolai was speaking. Pierre listened to what the colonel said and nodded approvingly. “That's very nice,” he said. “A real hussar, young man,” cried the colonel, pounding the table again. “What's this noise about?” Marya Dmitrievna's bass voice was suddenly heard all down the table. “What are you pounding the table for?” she addressed the hussar. “Why are you getting excited? Maybe you think the French are here in front of you?” “I'm speakink the truth,” the hussar said, smiling. “It's all about the war,” the count shouted down the table. “My son's going, Marya Dmitrievna, my son.” “I've got four sons in the army, and I'm not grieving. It's all God's will: you can die in your sleep, and God can spare you in battle,” the dense voice of Marya Dmitrievna rang out effortlessly from the other end of the table. “That's so.” And the conversation again became concentrated, the ladies' at their end of the table, the men's at theirs. “You don't dare ask,” said Natasha's little brother, “you don't dare ask!” “Yes, I do,” replied Natasha. Her face suddenly flushed, expressing a desperate and merry resolve. She stood up, her eyes inviting Pierre, who sat across from her, to listen, and addressed her mother. “Mama!” her throaty child's voice rang out for the whole table to hear. “What is it?” the countess asked fearfully, but, seeing from her daughter's face that it was a prank, she sternly waved her hand at her, making a threatening and negative gesture with her head. The conversation hushed. “Mama! what's for dessert?” Natasha's little voice rang out still more resolutely, without faltering. The countess wanted to frown, but could not. Marya Dmitrievna shook her fat finger. “Cossack!” she said menacingly. Most of the guests looked at the parents, not knowing how to take this escapade. “You're going to get it!” said the countess. “Mama! what's for dessert?” cried Natasha, boldly now and with capricious merriment, certain beforehand that her escapade would be taken well. Sonya and fat Petya hid their faces with laughter. “So I dared,” Natasha whispered to her little brother and to Pierre, at whom she glanced again. “Ice cream, only you won't get any,” said Marya Dmitrievna. Natasha saw there was nothing to fear, so she was not afraid of Marya Dmitrievna either. “What kind of ice cream, Marya Dmitrievna? I don't like vanilla.” “Carrot.” “No, what kind, Marya Dmitrievna, what kind?” she nearly shouted. “I want to know!” Marya Dmitrievna and the countess laughed, and all the guests followed suit. Everyone laughed not at Marya Dmitrievna's reply, but at the inconceivable boldness and

*

That's very beautiful, what you just said.

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adroitness of this girl, who was both smart and pert enough to treat Marya Dmitrievna that way. Natasha left off only when they told her there would be pineapple ice cream. Before the ice cream, champagne was served. The music struck up again, the count kissed his dear countess, and the guests, rising, wished the countess a happy name day, and clinked glasses across the table with the count, the children, and each other. Again the waiters scurried about, chairs scraped, and the guests, in the same order but with redder faces, returned to the drawing room and the count's study.

XVII Tables were set up for Boston, parties were chosen, and the count's guests settled themselves in the two drawing rooms, the sitting room, and the library. The count, his cards spread in a fan, refrained with difficulty from his usual afterdinner nap and laughed at everything. The young people, at the countess's urging, gathered around the clavichord and the harp. Julie was the first, at everybody's request, to play a piece with variations for the harp, and, along with the other girls, began asking Natasha and Nikolai, known for their musicality, to sing something. Natasha, who was addressed like a grown-up, was obviously very proud of it, but at the same time timid. “What shall we sing?” she asked. “‘The Spring,’”36 replied Nikolai. “Well, let's be quick about it. Boris, come here,” said Natasha. “But where's Sonya?” She looked around and, seeing that her friend was not in the room, ran to look for her. Running into Sonya's room and not finding her friend there, Natasha ran to the nursery—Sonya was not there either. Natasha realized that Sonya was in the corridor on the chest. The chest in the corridor was the place of sorrows for the young female generation of the Rostov house. Indeed, Sonya, in her airy pink dress, crushing it, was lying face down on the nanny's dirty striped featherbed, on the chest, and, covering her face with her fingers, was sobbing, her bare little shoulders twitching. Natasha's face, animated and festive all day, suddenly changed: her eyes stared, then her broad neck shuddered, and the corners of her mouth drooped. “Sonya! what is it? ... What, what's the matter with you? Wa-a-a! ...” And Natasha, spreading her big mouth and looking perfectly ugly, started howling like a baby, not knowing the reason why, only because Sonya was crying. Sonya wanted to raise her head and reply, but could not and buried herself still more. Natasha wept, sitting on the blue featherbed and embracing her friend. Gathering her forces, Sonya sat up and began wiping away her tears and telling her story. “Nikolenka's leaving in a week, his... papers... are ready ., , he told me himself ... But all the same I wouldn't be crying” (she held up the paper she had in her hand: it was verses written by Nikolai) “... all the same I wouldn't be crying, but you can't. . . nobody can understand ... what a soul he has.” And again she began to cry, because his soul was so good. “It's all right for you ... I'm not envious ... I love you, and Boris, too,” she said, gathering her forces a little, “he's nice ... there are no obstacles for you. But Nikolai's my 37 cousin ... we need ... the metropolitan himself ... even then it's impossible. And then, if mama” (Sonya considered and called the countess her mother) “... she'll say that I'm ruining Nikolai's career, that I have no heart, that I'm ungrateful, and really ... I swear to God” (she crossed herself) “... I love her and all of you so much, only Vera ... Why? What have I done to her? I'm so grateful to you that I'd be glad to sacrifice everything I have, but I don't have anything...”

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Sonya could not speak any more and again hid her head in her hands and in the featherbed. Natasha began to calm down, but it was clear from her face that she realized all the importance of her friend's grief. “Sonya!” she said suddenly, as if guessing the real reason for her cousin's distress. “Vera must have talked with you after dinner? Did she?” “Yes, Nikolai himself wrote out these verses, and I wrote down some others; she found them on my desk and said she'd show them to mama, and she also said I was ungrateful, that mama would never let him marry me, and that he'd marry Julie. You see how he's been with her the whole day ... Natasha! Why? ...” And again she burst out crying more bitterly than before. Natasha pulled her up, hugged her, and, smiling through her tears, began to reassure her. “Sonya, don't believe her, dear heart, don't believe her. Remember how we and Nikolenka, the three of us, talked in the sitting room—remember, after supper? We decided how everything was going to be. I don't remember how anymore, but remember how good and possible it all was? Why, Uncle Shin-shin's brother married his first cousin, and we're just second cousins. And Boris said it was very possible. You know, I told him everything. And he's so intelligent and so nice,” Natasha went on saying “... so don't cry, Sonya, dearest, darling Sonya.” And she kissed her, laughing. “Vera's wicked, God help her! But everything will be all right, and she won't tell mama; Nikolenka will tell her himself, and he never gave a thought to Julie.” And she kissed her on the head. Sonya got up, the kitten revived, its eyes sparkled, and it seemed ready to raise its tail any moment, spring up on its soft paws, and play with a ball of yarn, as a kitten ought to do. “Do you think so? Really? Swear to God?” she said, quickly straightening her dress and hair. “Really! Swear to God!” replied Natasha, straightening a strand of stiff hair that had come loose from her friend's braid. And the two girls laughed. “So, let's go and sing 'The Spring.’” “Yes, let's.” “You know, that fat Pierre, who sat across from me, is so funny!” Natasha said suddenly, stopping. “I feel so merry!” And Natasha went running down the corridor. Sonya, brushing off feathers, and hiding the verses in her bosom, near her neck with its protruding collarbones, her face flushed, went running after Natasha with light, merry steps down the corridor to the sitting room. At the request of the guests, the young people sang the quartet “The Spring,” which everyone liked very much. Then Nikolai sang a song he had just learned:38 On a pleasant night beneath the moon How happy is the reverie

That in this world there still is one Whose thoughts do ever turn to thee!

And as her lovely hand, which she Lets wander o'er the harp's bright strings, Plays in impassioned harmony, So she to thee her summons sings! One day, two days, then paradise... But ah! thy friend is cold as ice! And he had not finished singing the last words before the young people in the ballroom began preparing to dance, and the musicians began stamping their feet and coughing in the gallery. 58

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Pierre was sitting in the drawing room, where Shinshin, knowing he had come from abroad, had started a boring political conversation with him, in which other people joined. When the music began to play, Natasha came into the drawing room and, going straight up to Pierre, blushing and with laughing eyes, said: “Mama told me to ask you to dance.” “I'm afraid I'll confuse the figures,” said Pierre, “but if you'd like to be my teacher...” And, lowering his fat arm, he offered it to the slender girl. While the couples were being placed and the musicians were tuning up, Pierre sat with his little partner. Natasha was perfectly happy: she was dancing with a grown-up who had come from abroad. She sat in full view of everyone and talked to him like a grown-up. In her hand was a fan which a young lady had given her to hold. And, assuming a most worldly pose (God knows where and when she had learned it), fanning herself and smiling through the fan, she talked with her partner. “Look at her! Just look at her!” said the old countess, walking through the room and pointing at Natasha. Natasha blushed and laughed. “Well, what is it, mama? What are you getting at? What's so surprising?” In the middle of the third écossaise, chairs began moving in the drawing room where the count and Marya Dmitrievna were playing, and the greater part of the honored guests and old folk, stretching after sitting so long and putting their wallets and purses in their pockets, came to the door of the ballroom. At their head came Marya Dmitrievna and the count—both with merry faces. The count, with jocular politeness, somehow in a ballet-like fashion, offered his rounded arm to Marya Dmitrievna. He drew himself up and his face brightened with a special dashingly sly smile, and as soon as the last figures of the écossaise came to an end, he clapped his hands and called out to the musicians in the gallery, addressing the first fiddle: “Semyon! Do you know 'Daniel Cooper'?” That was the count's favorite dance, which he used to dance while still in his youth. (“Daniel Cooper” was in fact one of the figures of the anglaise.) “Look at papa,” Natasha shouted to the whole ballroom (completely forgetting that she was dancing with a grown-up), bending her curly head to her knees and dissolving into her ringing laughter for the whole ballroom to hear. Indeed, all who were in the ballroom looked with smiles of joy at the merry old man, who, beside his stately partner, Marya Dmitrievna, who was taller than he, rounded his arms, shook them in time to the music, squared his shoulders, flexed his legs, stamped slightly, and, the smile widening more and more on his round face, prepared the spectators for what was to come. As soon as the merry, provocative sounds of “Daniel Cooper,” resembling a rollicking trepak,39 rang out, all the doors of the ballroom suddenly filled with the smiling faces of the servants—the men on one side, the women on the other—who came to watch their master's merrymaking. “Look at the old dear! An eagle!” the nanny said loudly from one door. The count danced well and knew it, but his partner could not and would not dance well at all. Her enormous body stood straight, her powerful arms hung down (she had given her reticule to the countess); only her stern but handsome face danced. What was expressed in the whole round figure of the count, in Marya Dmitrievna was expressed in her ever more smiling face and ever more thrust-up nose. On the other hand, if the count, who got himself going more and more, fascinated his spectators by his unexpectedly deft capers and the light leaps of his supple legs, Marya Dmitrievna, by the slightest exertion in moving her shoulders or rounding her arms while turning or stamping, produced no less of an impression by its merit, which everyone appreciated in view of her corpulence and perpetual severity. The dance became more and more lively. The other couples could not 59

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draw attention to themselves for a minute and did not even try to. All were taken up with the count and Marya Dmitrievna. Natasha pulled everyone present by the sleeve or the dress, demanding that they look at papa, though even without that they never took their eyes off the dancers. The count, during the pauses in the dance, panted heavily, waved and shouted to the musicians to play faster. More and more quickly, more and more dashingly the count deployed himself, now on tiptoe, now on his heels, racing around Marya Dmitrievna, and finally, returning his partner to her seat, he performed the last step, raising his supple leg behind him, bending down his sweating head with its smiling face, and waving his rounded right arm amidst the thunder of applause and laughter, especially from Natasha. The two dancers stopped, breathing heavily and wiping their faces with cambric handkerchiefs. “That's how people danced in our time, ma chère,” said the count. “Ah, what a Daniel Cooper!” said Marya Dmitrievna, letting out a long, deep breath and pushing up her sleeves.

XVIII Just as the sixth anglaise was being danced in the Rostovs' ballroom to the sounds of the weary, out-of-tune musicians and the weary servants and cooks were preparing supper, Count Bezukhov had his sixth stroke. The doctors declared that there was no hope of 40 recovery; the sick man was given a blank confession and communion; preparations for extreme unction were made, and the house was filled with the bustle and anxiety of expectation usual at such moments. Outside the house, beyond the gate, avoiding the carriages that drove up, undertakers crowded in anticipation of a rich order for the count's funeral. The commander in chief of Moscow, who had constantly been sending adjutants to ask after the count's health, came in person that evening to take leave of Catherine's celebrated courtier, Count Bezukhov. The magnificent reception room was filled. Everyone rose deferentially when the commander in chief, having spent about half an hour alone with the sick man, came out, responding slightly to the bows and trying to go quickly past the looks that doctors, clergymen, and relations directed at him. Prince Vassily, grown thin and pale during those days, accompanied the commander in chief and quietly repeated something to him several times. Having seen the commander in chief off, Prince Vassily sat by himself on a chair in the hall, his legs crossed high up, his elbow resting on his knee, his hand over his eyes. Having sat like that for some time, he got up and, with unhabitually hurried steps, looking around with frightened eyes, went down the long corridor to the rear half of the house, to the eldest princess. Those who were in the dimly lit room talked together in broken whispers, and fell silent each time, turning with eyes full of inquiry and expectation to the door which led to the dying man's room and which made a faint noise whenever someone went in or came out. “A limit has been set,” said a little old man, a clerical person, to a lady who sat down beside him and listened to him naively, “a limit has been set to human life, which cannot be overstepped.” “I wonder if it's not too late to give extreme unction?” the lady asked, adding his clerical title, as if she had no opinion on the subject. “It is a great sacrament, my dear,” the clerical person replied, passing his hand over his bald head, which had several strands of half-gray hair combed over it. “Who was that? The commander in chief himself?” someone asked at the other end of the room. “What a youthful man! ...”

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“He's in his sixties! Well, so they say the count no longer recognizes anyone? Do they mean to give him extreme unction?” “I knew a man who received extreme unction seven times.” The second princess came out of the sick man's room with tearful eyes and sat down next to Dr. Lorrain, who was sitting in a graceful pose under a portrait of Catherine, leaning his elbow on a table. “Très beau,” the doctor said in reply to a question about the weather, “très beau, * princesse, et puis, à Moscou on se croit à la campagne. “ † “N'est-ce-pas?” said the princess, sighing. “So he's allowed to drink?” Lorrain pondered. “Has he taken his medicine?” “Yes.” The doctor looked at his Breguet.41 “Take a glass of boiled water and put in une pincée” (with his slender fingers he showed what une pincée meant) “de cremortartari...”‡ “Dere hass been no occasion,” a German doctor said to an adjutant, “dat one remains alife after a second shtroke.” “And he was such a fresh man!” said the adjutant. “And to whom will all that wealth go?” he added in a whisper. “Dere vill be no lack of seekers,” the German said, smiling. Everyone looked at the door again: it creaked, and the second princess, having prepared the drink prescribed by Lorrain, carried it to the sick man. The German doctor went over to Lorrain. “He may still last until tomorrow morning?” the German asked in poorly pronounced French. Lorrain, compressing his lips, wagged his finger sternly and negatively in front of his nose. “Tonight, no later,” he said softly, with a decent smile of self-satisfaction at being able to clearly understand and explain the patient's condition, and walked away. Meanwhile, Prince Vassily had opened the door to the princess's room. The room was in semi-darkness, only two icon lamps burned before the icons, and there was a good smell of incense and flowers. The whole room was filled with small furniture: little chiffoniers, cupboards, tables. Behind a screen the white covers of a high featherbed could be seen. A little dog barked. “Ah, it's you, mon cousin?” She got up and straightened her hair, which was always, even now, so extraordinarily smooth that it seemed varnished and of one piece with her head. “What, has something happened?” she asked. “I'm so frightened.” “Nothing, it's all the same; I have only come to have a talk with you, Catiche, about business,” said the prince, sitting with an air of fatigue in the armchair from which she had § gotten up. “How warm you keep it, though,” he said. “Well, sit down here, causons.” “I thought something had happened,” said the princess, and with her unchanging, stern and stony expression, she sat down opposite the prince and prepared to listen. “I wanted to get some sleep, mon cousin, but I can't.” “Well, and so, my dear?” said Prince Vassily, taking the princess's hand and pulling it down, as was his habit. Very fine . . . very fine, Princess, and then, in Moscow one thinks one is in the country. Isn't it so? ‡ A pinch ... of cremortartari. § Let's talk. *

†

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It was clear that this “and so” referred to many things they both understood without naming them. The princess, with her dry and straight waist, incongruously long for her legs, looked straight and passionlessly at the prince with her prominent gray eyes. She shook her head and, sighing, turned to look at the icons. Her gesture could have been interpreted either as an expression of sorrow and devotion, or as an expression of weariness and hope for a speedy repose. Prince Vassily interpreted this gesture as an expression of weariness. “And do you think it's any easier for me?” he said. “Je suis éreinté comme un cheval de poste,* but all the same I must talk with you, Catiche, and very seriously.” Prince Vassily fell silent, and his cheeks began to twitch nervously now on one side, now on the other, giving his face an unpleasant expression which never appeared on Prince Vassily's face when he was in a drawing room. His eyes were also not the same as usual: now they looked with insolent jocularity, now they glanced around fearfully. The princess, holding the dog on her lap with her dry, thin hands, looked attentively into Prince Vassily's eyes; but it was evident that she would not break the silence with a question, even if she had to remain silent till morning. “So you see, my dear princess and cousin, Katerina Semyonovna,” Prince Vassily continued, evidently getting himself to continue his talk only after an inner struggle, “at moments like this, it is necessary to think of everything. It is necessary to think of the future, of you ... I love you all like my own children, you know that.” The princess went on looking at him just as dully and fixedly. “Finally, it is necessary to think of my family, too,” Prince Vassily continued, angrily pushing a little table away and without looking at her. “You know, Catiche, that you three Mamontov sisters, and my wife as well—we are the count's only direct heirs. I know, I know how hard it is for you to speak and think about such things. It's no easier for me; but I'm over fifty, my friend, I must be ready for anything. Do you know that I have sent for Pierre, and that the count, pointing directly at his portrait, demanded that he come?” Prince Vassily looked questioningly at the princess, but could not tell whether she was considering what he had said to her, or was simply staring at him... “There's one thing for which I never cease praying to God, mon cousin,” she replied, “that He have mercy on him and grant that his beautiful soul peacefully depart this...” “Yes, that's right,” Prince Vassily went on impatiently, rubbing his bald head and angrily seizing the little table he had pushed away and moving it towards him again, “but, finally ... finally, the thing is, as you know yourself, that last winter the count wrote a will according to which, passing over his direct heirs and us, he bequeathed all his property to Pierre.” “He has written all sorts of wills,” the princess said calmly, “but he cannot bequeath anything to Pierre! Pierre is illegitimate.” “But, ma chère,'“ Prince Vassily said suddenly, clutching the little table to him, becoming animated, and beginning to speak more quickly, “what if a letter had been written to the sovereign and the count had asked to adopt Pierre? You understand, given the count's merits, his request would be granted...” The princess smiled as people smile who think they know more about a matter than those they are talking with. “I'll tell you more,” Prince Vassily went on, gripping her hand. “The letter has been written, though not sent, and the sovereign knows of it. The only question is whether it has been destroyed or not. If not, then as soon as it's all over,” Prince Vassily sighed, letting it be understood what he meant by the words all over, “and the count's papers are opened,

*

I'm as exhausted as a post-horse.

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the will and the letter will be sent to the sovereign, and his request will most likely be granted. As a legitimate son, Pierre will get everything.” “And our share?” asked the princess, smiling ironically, as if anything but that could happen. * “Mais, ma pauvre Catiche, c'est clair comme le jour. He alone is then the legitimate heir to everything, and you won't get even this much. You must know, my dear, whether the will and the letter were written, and whether they have been destroyed. And if they've been overlooked for some reason, you must know where they are and must find them, because...” “That's all we need!” the princess interrupted, smiling sardonically and without changing the expression of her eyes. “I'm a woman; in your opinion, we're all stupid; but I know enough to be sure that an illegitimate son cannot inherit... Un bâtard,” she added, supposing that this translation would definitively prove to the prince his groundlessness. “How is it you don't understand, finally, Catiche? You're so intelligent, how is it you don't understand: if the count wrote a letter to the sovereign, in which he asked that his son be recognized as legitimate, it means that Pierre will no longer be Pierre, but Count Bezukhov, and then according to the will he'll get everything. And if the will and the letter have not been destroyed, there will be nothing left for you except the consolation that you † have been virtuous et tout ce qui s'en suit. That is certain.” “I know that the will has been written; but I also know that it is not valid, and you seem to consider me a perfect fool, mon cousin,” said the princess, with that expression with which women speak when they suppose they have said something witty and insulting. “My dear Princess Katerina Semyonovna!” Prince Vassily began speaking impatiently. “I have come to you not in order to exchange barbs, but in order to talk with you, as with a kinswoman, a good, kind, true kinswoman, about your own interests. I tell you for the tenth time that if the letter to the sovereign and the will favoring Pierre are among the count's papers, then, my darling, you and your sisters do not inherit. If you don't believe me, believe people who know: I've just spoken with Dmitri Onufrich” (this was the family lawyer), “and he says the same thing.” Evidently something suddenly changed in the princess's mind; her thin lips turned pale (her eyes remained the same), and her voice, when she began to speak, kept breaking into such tremors as she evidently did not expect herself. “That would be just fine,” she said. “I don't want anything and never did.” She threw the dog off her lap and straightened the folds of her dress. “There's gratitude, there's thankfulness to people who have sacrificed everything for him,” she said. “Wonderful! Very fine! I need nothing, Prince.” “Yes, but you're not alone, you have sisters,” replied Prince Vassily. But the princess was not listening to him. “Yes, I've long known, but I had forgotten, that apart from baseness, deceit, envy, intrigue, apart from ingratitude, the blackest ingratitude, I could expect nothing in this house...” “Do you or do you not know where the will is?” Prince Vassily asked, his cheeks twitching still more than before. “Yes, I was stupid, I still believed in people, and loved them, and sacrificed myself. But only those who are mean and vile succeed. I know whose intrigue this is.”

* †

But, my poor Catiche, it's clear as day. And all that follows from it.

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The princess was about to get up, but the prince held her by the arm. The princess had the air of someone who has suddenly become disappointed in the whole human race; she looked spitefully at her interlocutor. “There's still time, my friend. Remember, Catiche, it was all done inadvertently, in a moment of wrath, illness, and then forgotten. Our duty, my dear, is to correct his mistake, to alleviate his last moments by not allowing him to do this injustice, by not letting him die thinking he has made unhappy those people who...” “Those people who sacrificed everything for him,” the princess picked up, again trying to rise, but the prince did not let her, “something he was never able to appreciate. No, mon cousin” she added with a sigh, “I shall remember that one can expect no reward in this world, that in this world there is neither honor nor justice. One must be cunning and wicked in this world.” “Well, voyons,* calm down; I know your excellent heart.” “No, I have a wicked heart.” “I know your heart,” the prince repeated, “I value your friendship, and I wish you were of the same opinion about me. Calm down and parlons raison,† while there's time—maybe a day, maybe an hour. Tell me all you know about the will, and above all, where it is: you must know. We'll take it right now and show it to the count. He has surely forgotten about it by now and will want it destroyed. You understand that my only desire is to fulfill his wishes religiously; that is the only reason I've come here. I am here only to help him and you.” “Now I've understood everything. I know whose intrigue it is. I know,” said the princess. “That's not the point, dear heart.” “It's your protégée, your dear Anna Mikhailovna, whom I wouldn't have as a housemaid—that vile, loathsome woman.” “Ne perdons point de temps,”‡ “Ah, don't speak to me! Last winter she wormed her way in here and told the count a whole heap of such vile, such nasty things about us all, especially Sophie—I can't repeat it—that the count became ill and didn't want to see us for two weeks. I know it was then that he wrote that nasty, loathsome document; but I thought the document meant nothing.” “Nous y voilà,§ why didn't you tell me anything before?” “It's in the inlaid portfolio he keeps under his pillow. Now I know,” said the princess, not replying. “Yes, if I have a sin, a great sin, it's my hatred of that loathsome woman,” the princess nearly shouted, changing into a completely different person. “And why is she worming her way in here? But I'll have it out with her, I'll have it all out. The time will come!”

XIX While such conversations were going on in the reception room and the princess's apartments, the carriage bringing Pierre (who had been sent for) and Anna Mikhailovna (who found it necessary to go with him) was driving into Count Bezukhov's courtyard. As the wheels of the carriage rumbled softly over the straw spread under the windows, Anna Mikhailovna, turning to her companion with words of comfort, discovered that he was asleep in the corner of the carriage, and woke him up. Coming to his senses, Pierre Come now. Let's talk reason. ‡ Let's not waste time. § There we are. *

†

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followed Anna Mikhailovna out of the carriage and only then thought about the meeting with his dying father that lay ahead of him. He noticed that they had driven up not to the front, but to the back entrance. Just as he was stepping out, two men in tradesman's clothes hastily ran away from the entrance into the shadow of the wall. Having stopped, Pierre made out several more men of the same sort in the shadow of the house on both sides. But neither Anna Mikhailovna, nor the footman, nor the coachman, who could not help seeing these men, paid any attention to them. So that is how it has to be, Pierre decided to himself and went after Anna Mikhailovna. Anna Mikhailovna went up the dimly lit, narrow stone stairs with hasty steps, calling to Pierre, who lagged behind her, and who, though he did not understand why in general he had to go to the count, and still less why he had to go by the back stairs, decided to himself, judging by Anna Mikhailovna's assurance and haste, that this had necessarily to be so. Halfway up the stairs, they were nearly knocked off their feet by some people with buckets who came running down the stairs, stamping with their boots. These people pressed themselves to the wall to let Pierre and Anna Mikhailovna pass and did not show the least surprise when they saw them. “Is this the way to the princesses' apartments?” Anna Mikhailovna asked one of them. “Yes,” the lackey answered in a bold, loud voice, as though everything was permitted now, “the door on the left, good lady.” “Maybe the count didn't send for me,” said Pierre, when he came to the landing. “I'll just go to my own rooms.” Anna Mikhailovna stopped so that Pierre could catch up with her. “Ah, mon ami!” she said, with the same gesture as in the morning, when she touched * her son's arm, “croyez que je souffre autant que vous, mais soyez homme.” “Really, why don't I go?” asked Pierre, looking at Anna Mikhailovna affectionately through his spectacles. “Ah, mon ami, oubliez les torts qu'on a pu avoir envers vous, pensez que c'est votre père ... peut-être à l'agonie. “ She sighed. “Je vous ai tout de suite aimé comme mon fils. Fiez à † moi, Pierre. Je n'oublierais pas vos intérêts.” Pierre understood none of it; he had a still stronger impression that this was how it had to be, and he obediently followed Anna Mikhailovna, who was already opening the door. The door led to the backstairs hallway. In the corner sat the princesses' old servant knitting a sock. Pierre had never been in this part of the house; he had not even suspected the existence of these rooms. Anna Mikhailovna asked a girl who walked past them with a carafe on a tray (calling her dear and sweetheart) about the princesses' health, and drew Pierre further down the stone corridor. The first room to the left from the corridor led to the princesses' living quarters. The maid with the carafe, in her haste (everything was being done in haste just then in this house), did not close the door, and as they were passing by, Pierre and Anna Mikhailovna involuntarily glanced into the room where the eldest princess and Prince Vassily were sitting close together, talking. Seeing them pass by, Prince Vassily made an impatient movement and drew back; the princess jumped up and, in a desperate gesture, slammed the door shut with all her might. This gesture was so unlike the princess's usual calm, the fear that showed on

Ah, my friend! . . . believe me, I'm suffering as much as you, but be a man. Ah, my friend, forget the wrongs that may have been done you, think that this is your father ... perhaps in his death agony ... I loved you at once like my own son. Trust me, Pierre. I won't forget your interests. *

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Prince Vassily's face was so inconsistent with his augustness, that Pierre stopped and looked at his guide questioningly through his spectacles. Anna Mikhailovna expressed no surprise, she only smiled slightly and sighed, as if to show that she had expected it all. * “Soyez homme, mon ami, c'est moi qui veillerai à vos intérêts,” she said in response to his look and went still more quickly down the corridor. Pierre did not understand what it was all about, and still less what veiller à vos intérêts meant, but he understood that it all had to be so. From the corridor they went into the half-lit salon adjoining the count's anteroom. It was one of those cold and luxurious rooms which Pierre knew only from the front porch. But in this room, too, in the middle of it, stood an empty tub, and water had been spilled on the carpet. They encountered a servant and an acolyte with a censer, who were walking on tiptoe and paid no attention to them. They went into the anteroom, so familiar to Pierre, with its two Italian windows opening on the winter garden, a big bust, and a full-length portrait of Catherine. The same people, in almost the same positions, were sitting in the anteroom, exchanging whispers. They all fell silent and turned to look at the entering Anna Mikhailovna, with her pale, weepy face, and the big, fat Pierre, who, with his head hanging, obediently followed her. Anna Mikhailovna's face expressed an awareness that the decisive moment had come; with the manner of a business-like Petersburg lady, she entered the room still more boldly than in the morning, not letting Pierre stray from her. She felt that, since she was bringing with her the person whom the dying man wished to see, her reception was assured. With a quick glance around, taking in everyone who was in the room and noticing the count's father confessor, not really bending down, but suddenly making herself smaller, at a quick amble, glided over to the father confessor and respectfully received a blessing first from the one, then from the other clerical person. “Thank God we're in time,” she said to the clerical person. “We, his relations, were all so afraid. This young man is the count's son,” she added in a lower voice. “A terrible moment!” Having spoken these words, she went over to the doctor, “Cher docteur,” she said to him, “ce jeune homme est le fils du comte... y a-t-il de l'espoir?”† The doctor was silent, raising his eyes and shoulders with a quick movement. Anna Mikhailovna, with exactly the same movement, raised her shoulders and eyes, almost closing them, sighed, and walked away from the doctor towards Pierre. She addressed Pierre with special respectfulness and tender sorrow. ‡ “Ayez confiance en sa miséricorde!” she said to him and, pointing to a little settee on which he could sit and wait for her, made inaudibly for the door that everyone was looking at, and, following the barely audible noise of that door, disappeared behind it. Pierre, having decided to obey his guide in all things, made for the little settee she had pointed out to him. As soon as Anna Mikhailovna disappeared, he noticed that the eyes of everyone in the room turned to him with something more than curiosity and sympathy. He noticed that they all exchanged whispers, indicating him with their eyes, as if with fear and even obsequiousness. He was being shown a respect no one had ever shown him before: a lady unknown to him, who had been talking with the clerical persons, got up from her place and offered him a seat; the adjutant picked up a glove Pierre had dropped and handed it to him; the doctors fell deferentially silent when he walked past them and stepped aside to make way for him. Pierre first wanted to sit somewhere else, so as not to inconvenience the lady, wanted to pick up the glove himself, and to bypass the doctors, who were not standing in his way; but he suddenly felt that that would be Be a man, my friend, it is I who will watch over your interests. Dear doctor . . . this young man is the count's son ... is there any hope? ‡ Trust in His mercy! *

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improper, he felt that that night he was the person responsible for performing some terrible rite which everyone expected, and that he therefore had to accept services from them all. He silently accepted the glove from the adjutant, sat down in the lady's place, putting his big hands on his symmetrically displayed knees in the naïve pose of an Egyptian statue, and decided to himself that this was precisely as it had to be and that that evening, so as not to lose his head and do something foolish, he ought not to act according to his own reasoning, but give himself up entirely to the will of those who were guiding him. Two minutes had not gone by before Prince Vassily, in his kaftan with three stars, holding his head high, majestically entered the room. He seemed to have grown thinner since morning; his eyes were larger than usual as he looked around and saw Pierre. He went over to him, took his hand (something he had never done before), and pulled it down, as if testing whether it was well attached. “Courage, courage, mon ami. Il a demandé de vous voir. C'est bien...”* And he was about to leave. But Pierre considered it necessary to ask: “How is the health of...” He hesitated, not knowing whether it was proper to call the dying man “count”; yet he was embarrassed to call him “father.” † “Il a eu encore un coup, il y a une demi-heure. Yet another stroke. Courage, mon ami...” Pierre Was in such a state of mental confusion that, at the word “stroke,” he pictured some sort of blow to the body. He looked at Prince Vassily in perplexity, and only then realized that “stroke” referred to an illness. Prince Vassily spoke several words to Lorrain in passing and went through the door on tiptoe. He did not know how to walk on tiptoe, and his whole body bobbed up and down awkwardly. The elder princess went in after him, then the clerical persons and the acolytes went in, then the servants also went through the door. Behind the door movement was heard, and finally, with the same face, pale but firm in the fulfillment of her duty, Anna Mikhailovna rushed out and, touching Pierre's arm, said: “La bonté divine est inépuisable. C'est la cérémonie de l'extrême onction qui va ‡ commencer. Venez.” Pierre went through the door, stepping on the soft carpet, and noticed that the adjutant and the unknown lady, and some other servants—all came in after him, as if there was no longer any need to ask permission to enter that room.

XX Pierre knew well that big room, divided by columns and an archway, all hung with Persian carpets. The part of the room behind the columns, where on one side stood a high mahogany bed under a silk canopy and on the other an enormous stand with icons, was brightly lit with red light, as is usual in churches during evening services. Under the shining casings of the icons stood a long Voltaire armchair, and on the chair, its upper part spread with snow-white, unrumpled, apparently just-changed pillows, covered to the waist with a bright green coverlet, lay the majestic figure, so familiar to Pierre, of his father, Count Bezukhov, with the same mane of gray hair, reminiscent of a lion's, above his broad forehead, and the same characteristically noble, deep furrows on his handsome reddishyellow face. He lay directly under the icons; his two large, fat arms were freed of the coverlet and lay on top of it. In his right hand, which lay palm down, a wax candle had He has asked to see you. That's good . . . He had another stroke half an hour ago. ‡ The divine goodness is inexhaustible. The ceremony of extreme unction is about to begin. Come. *

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been placed between the thumb and the index finger, held in place by an old servant who reached from behind the armchair. Over the armchair stood the clerical persons in their majestic, shining vestments, their long hair spread loose on them, lighted candles in their hands, performing the service with slow solemnity. A little behind them stood the two younger princesses, holding handkerchiefs to their eyes, and in front of them the elder princess, Catiche, with a spiteful and resolute air, not taking her eyes off the icons for a moment, as if telling everyone that she would not answer for herself if she glanced back. Anna Mikhailovna, meek sorrow and all-forgiveness on her face, and the unknown lady stood by the door. Prince Vassily stood on the other side of the door, close to the armchair, behind a velvet-upholstered chair with its carved back turned to him, resting his elbow on it, holding a candle in his left hand, crossing himself with the right, raising his eyes each time he put the fingers to his forehead. His face expressed calm piety and submission to the will of God. “If you don't understand these feelings, the worse for you,” his face seemed to say. Behind him stood the adjutant, the doctors, and the male servants; the men and women were separated as in church. All were silent, crossing themselves, only the church reading could be heard, the restrained bass singing, and, in moments of silence, sighing and the shuffling of feet. Anna Mikhailovna, with a significant air which showed that she knew what she was doing, went all the way across the room to give Pierre a candle. He lit it and, diverted by observing the others, began to cross himself with the same hand in which he was holding the candle. The youngest, the red-cheeked and laughter-prone Princess Sophie, with the little mole, looked at him. She smiled, hid her face in her handkerchief, and did not uncover it for a long time; but, looking at Pierre, she laughed again. She evidently felt herself unable to look at him without laughing, but could not keep from looking at him, and, to avoid temptation, slowly moved behind a column. Midway through the service, the voices of the clergy suddenly fell silent; the clerical persons said something to each other in a whisper; the old servant who was holding the count's hand straightened up and turned to the ladies. Anna Mikhailovna stepped forward and, bending over the sick man, beckoned behind her back for Lorrain to come. The French doctor—who stood without a lighted candle, leaning on a column, in the respectful pose of a foreigner, which showed that, despite differences of belief, he understood all the importance of the rite being performed and even approved of it—went over to the sick man with the inaudible steps of a man in the prime of life, took up his free hand from the green coverlet in his white, slender fingers, and, turning away, began taking his pulse and pondering. The sick man was given something to drink, there was stirring around him, then everyone went to their places and the service resumed. During this interruption, Pierre noticed that Prince Vassily came from behind the back of his chair and with that same look which showed that he knew what he was doing, and so much the worse for the others if they did not understand him, did not go up to the sick man, but passing by him, joined the eldest princess and together with her made for the depths of the bedroom, to the high bed under the silk canopy. From the bed, both prince and princess disappeared through a rear door, but before the end of the service they came back to their places one after the other. Pierre paid no more attention to this circumstance than to all the others, having decided in his mind once and for all that everything taking place before him that evening had necessarily to be so. The sound of the church singing ceased, and the voice of the clerical person was heard deferentially congratulating the sick man with having received the sacrament. The sick man went on lying in the same way, lifelessly and motion-lessly. Around him everyone stirred, footsteps and whispers were heard., among which the whisper of Anna Mikhailovna stood out more sharply than the rest. Pierre heard her say: 68

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“He must be transferred to his bed, here it will be quite impossible...” The sick man was so surrounded by doctors, princesses, and servants that Pierre could no longer see the reddish-yellow head with its gray mane, which, though he did see other faces, had never once left his sight during the whole service. By the cautious movements of the people standing around the armchair, Pierre guessed that the dying man was being lifted up and transferred. “Hold on to my arm, otherwise you'll drop him,” the frightened whisper of one of the servants reached him, “from below ... one more,” voices said, and the heavy breathing and the tread of people's feet quickened, as if the load they were carrying was beyond their strength. The carriers, who also included Anna Mikhailovna, came even with the young man, and for a moment, over people's backs and necks, he saw the high, fleshy, bared chest and massive shoulders of the sick man, raised up by the people who held him under the arms, and his curly, gray leonine head. That head, with its extraordinarily wide brow and cheekbones, handsome sensual mouth, and majestic, cold gaze, was not disfigured by the proximity of death. It was the same as Pierre had known it three months earlier, when the count had seen him off to Petersburg. But this head swayed helplessly from the uneven steps of the carriers, and the cold, indifferent gaze did not know where to rest. Several minutes were spent bustling around the high bed; the people who had carried the sick man dispersed. Anna Mikhailovna touched Pierre's arm and said: “Venez.”* Together with her, Pierre went up to the bed, on which the sick man had been laid in a stately pose, evidently having to do with the just-received sacrament. He lay with his head resting on the highly propped pillows. His hands were symmetrically laid out, palms down, on the green silk coverlet. When Pierre went up, the count looked straight at him, but looked with a gaze the meaning and significance of which no man could possibly understand. Either this gaze said nothing at all, except that as long as one has eyes one must look somewhere, or it said all too much. Pierre stood there not knowing what to do, and looked questioningly at his guide, Anna Mikhailovna. Anna Mikhailovna made a hasty gesture with her eyes, indicating the sick man's hand and sending it an airborne kiss with her lips. Pierre, diligently stretching his neck so as not to snag the coverlet, followed her advice and put his lips to the wide-boned and fleshy hand. Neither the hand nor a single muscle of the count's face stirred. Pierre again looked questioningly at Anna Mikhailovna, asking what he was to do now. Anna Mikhailovna pointed him with her eyes to an armchair that stood by the bed. Pierre obediently began to sit down in the chair, his eyes still asking whether he was doing the right thing. Anna Mikhailovna nodded her head approvingly. Pierre again assumed the symmetrically naïve pose of an Egyptian statue, evidently regretting that his clumsy and fat body took up so much space, and applying all his inner forces to making himself seem as small as possible. He looked at the count. The count looked at the same place where Pierre's face had been when he was standing. Anna Mikhailovna's face expressed an awareness of the touching importance of this last-minute meeting of father and son. This went on for two minutes, which seemed like an hour to Pierre. Suddenly a shuddering came over the big muscles and furrows of the count's face. The shuddering increased, the handsome mouth became contorted (only here did Pierre realize how close to death his father was), a vague, hoarse sound came from the contorted mouth. Anna Mikhailovna diligently looked into the sick man's eyes, trying to guess what he wanted, pointed to Pierre, then to the drink, then in a questioning whisper named Prince Vassily, then pointed to the coverlet. The sick man's eyes and face showed impatience. He made an effort to look at the servant who never left his post at the head of the bed. *

Come.

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“He would like to be turned on that side,” whispered the servant, and he got up to turn the count's heavy body face to the wall. Pierre stood up to help the servant. As the count was being turned, one of his arms was left hanging helplessly, and he made a vain attempt to drag it over. Either the count noticed the horror with which Pierre looked at this lifeless arm, or some other thought flashed in his dying head at that moment, but he looked at the disobedient arm, at the expression of horror on Pierre's face, at the arm again, and on his face there appeared—so incongruous with his features—a faint, suffering smile, as if expressing mockery at his own strengthlessness. Unexpectedly, at the sight of this smile, Pierre felt a shuddering in his breast, a tickling in his nose, and tears blurred his vision. The sick man was turned on his side to the wall. He sighed. “Il est assoupi,” said Anna Mikhailovna, noticing the princess coming to replace them. “Allons.”* Pierre went out.

XXI There was no one in the reception room now except Prince Vassily and the elder princess, who were sitting under the portrait of Catherine having a lively talk. As soon as they saw Pierre with his guide, they fell silent. The princess hid something, as it seemed to Pierre, and whispered: “I can't bear that woman.” “Catiche a fait donner du thé dans le petit salon,” Prince Vassily said to Anna Mikhailovna. “Allez, ma pauvre Anna Mikhailovna, prenez quelque chose, autrement vous † ne suffirez pas.” He said nothing to Pierre, only squeezed his upper arm feelingly. Pierre and Anna Mikhailovna moved on to the small drawing room. “Il n'y a rien qui restaure, comme une tasse de cet excellent thé Russe après une nuit blanche,”‡ said Lorrain, with an expression of restrained animation, sipping from a fine china cup without a handle, standing in the small, round drawing room in front of a table on which a tea service and a cold supper had been laid. Everyone who was in Count Bezukhov's house that night gathered around the table to fortify themselves. Pierre remembered very well this small, round drawing room with its mirrors and little tables. During balls at the count's house, Pierre, who danced poorly, liked to sit in this little room of mirrors and watch how ladies in ball gowns, with diamonds and pearls on their bare shoulders, passing through this room, looked at themselves in the brightly lit mirrors, which repeated their reflections several times. Now the same room was barely lit with two candles, and in the middle of the night a tea service and some dishes lay in disorder on one of the little tables, and various non-festive people, exchanging whispers, were sitting in it, showing with each movement, each word, that none of them had forgotten what was going on and was yet to be consummated in the bedroom. Pierre did not eat, though he very much wanted to. He glanced questioningly at his guide and saw her going out on tiptoe, back to the reception room, where Prince Vassily had remained with the elder princess. Pierre supposed that it had to be so, lingered a little, and followed her. Anna Mikhailovna was standing by the princess, and the two women were speaking simultaneously in agitated whispers.

He has dozed off . . . Let's go. Catiche has had tea served in the small drawing room. Go, my poor Anna Mikhailovna, have something, otherwise you won't hold out. ‡ There's nothing so restorative as a cup of this excellent Russian tea after a sleepless night. *

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“Allow me, Princess, to know what is and what is not necessary,” the younger woman was saying, evidently in the same agitated state she had been in when she had slammed the door to her room. “But, my dear princess,” Anna Mikhailovna was saying meekly and persuasively, barring the way to the bedroom and preventing the princess from going in, “won't it be too hard on poor, dear uncle at such a moment, when he needs rest? To talk about worldly things at such a moment, when his soul is already prepared...” Prince Vassily was sitting in an armchair, in his casual pose, one leg crossed high up over the other. His cheeks were twitching badly, and, when they slackened, seemed fatter below; but he had the look of a man who was little taken up with the conversation of the two ladies. “Voyons, ma bonne Anna Mikhailovna, laissez faire Catiche.* You know how the count loves her.” “I don't even know what's in this document,” said the princess, turning to Prince Vassily and pointing to the inlaid portfolio she was holding in her hands. “I only know that the real will is in his desk, and this is a forgotten document ...” She tried to go around Anna Mikhailovna, but Anna Mikhailovna sprang over and again barred her way. “I know, dear, good princess,” said Anna Mikhailovna, seizing the portfolio with her hand and so firmly that it was clear she would not soon let go of it. “Dear princess, I beg you, I beseech you, have pity on him. Je vous en conjure...† The princess said nothing. All that could be heard were the sounds of the efforts of the struggle over the portfolio. It was clear that if she did start to talk, it would not be flattering for Anna Mikhailovna. Anna Mikhailovna held on tight, but in spite of that her voice retained all its sweet, drawling softness. “Pierre, come here, my friend. I think he won't be out of place in the family council— isn't that so, Prince?” “Why are you silent, mon cousin?” the princess suddenly shouted so loudly that the people in the drawing room heard and were frightened by her voice. “Why are you silent, when here God knows who allows herself to interfere and make scenes on a dying's man's threshold? Intriguer!” she whispered spitefully and tugged at the portfolio with all her might, but Anna Mikhailovna went a few steps so as not to let go of the portfolio, and shifted her grip. “Oh!” Prince Vassily said with reproach and astonishment. He got up. “C'est ridicule. Voyons, let go, I tell you.” The princess let go. “You, too!” Anna Mikhailovna did not obey him. “Let go, I tell you. I take it all upon myself. I'll go and ask him. I... let that be enough for you.” “Mais, mon prince,” said Anna Mikhailovna, “give him a moment's rest after such a great sacrament. Here, Pierre, tell us your opinion,” she turned to the young man who, coming up close to them, looked with astonishment at the princess's spiteful face, which had lost all decency, and at the twitching cheeks of Prince Vassily. “Remember that you will answer for all the consequences,” Prince Vassily said sternly. “You don't know what you're doing.” “Loathsome woman!” the princess cried, suddenly falling upon Anna Mikhailovna and tearing the portfolio from her. Prince Vassily hung his head and spread his hands. * †

Come, my good Anna Mikhailovna, let Catiche do as she likes. I entreat you ...

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At that moment the door, that awful door at which Pierre had stared for so long and which had opened so softly, now opened noisily, banging against the wall, and the younger princess ran out clasping her hands. * “What are you doing!” she said desperately. “Il s'en va et vous me laissez seule.” The elder princess dropped the portfolio. Anna Mikhailovna quickly bent down and, picking up the disputed object, ran to the bedroom. The elder princess and Prince Vassily came to their senses and followed her. A few minutes later, the elder princess was the first to come out, with a pale and dry face, biting her lower lip. At the sight of Pierre, her face showed irrepressible spite. “Yes, rejoice now,” she said, “you've been waiting for this.” And, bursting into sobs, she covered her face with a handkerchief and ran out of the room. After the princess, Prince Vassily came out. Staggering, he reached the sofa on which Pierre was sitting and collapsed on it, covering his eyes with his hand. Pierre noted that he was pale and his lower jaw was twitching and shaking as in a fever. “Ah, my friend!” he said, taking Pierre by the elbow; and in his voice there was sincerity and weakness, such as Pierre had never noticed in him before. “We sin so much, we deceive so much, and all for what? I'm over fifty, my friend ... I'll. . . Everything ends in death, everything. Death is terrible.” He wept. Anna Mikhailovna was the last to come out. She went to Pierre with quiet, slow steps. “Pierre! ...” she said. Pierre looked at her questioningly. She kissed the young man on the forehead, wetting it with tears. She paused. “Il n'est plus...”† Pierre looked at her through his spectacles. “Allons, je vous reconduirai. Tâchez de pleurer. Rien ne soulage comme les larmes,”‡ She led him to the dark drawing room, and Pierre was glad that nobody could see his face. Anna Mikhailovna left him, and when she came back, he was sound asleep, his head resting on his arm. The next morning Anna Mikhailovna said to Pierre: “Oui, mon cher, c'est une grande perte pour nous tous. Je ne parle pas de vous. Mais Dieu vous soutiendra, vous êtes jeune et vous voilà à la tête d'une immense fortune, je l'espère. Le testament n'a pas été encore ouvert. Je vous connais assez pour savoir que cela ne vous tournera pas la tête, mais cela vous § impose des devoirs, et il faut être homme.” Pierre was silent. “Peut-être plus tard je vous dirai, mon cher, que si je n'avais pas été là, Dieu sait ce que serait arrivé. Vous savez mon oncle avant-hier encore me promettait de ne pas oublier Boris. Mais il n'a pas eu le temps. J'espère, mon cher ami, que vous remplirez le désir de ** votre père.”

He's going and you leave me alone. He's no more. ‡ Come, I'll see you out. Try to weep. Nothing relieves one like tears. § Yes, my dear, it is a great loss for us all. To say nothing of you. But God will sustain you, you are young, and here you are at the head of an immense fortune, I hope. The will has not yet been opened. I know you well enough to know that this will not turn your head, but it does impose duties on you, and one must be a man. ** Perhaps later on I'll tell you, my dear, that if I hadn't been there, God knows what would have happened. You know my uncle just the day before yesterday promised me not to forget Boris. But he had no time. I hope, my dear friend, that you will fulfill your father's wish. *

†

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Pierre understood nothing and silently gazed at Anna Mikhailovna, blushing shyly. Having talked with Pierre, Anna Mikhailovna drove off to the Rostovs' and went to bed. She woke up in the morning and told the Rostovs and all her acquaintances the details of Count Bezukhov's death. She said that the count had died as she would like to die, that his end had been not only touching, but also instructive; and the last meeting of the father and son had been so touching that she could not recall it without tears, and that she did not know who had behaved better in those terrible moments: the father, who remembered everything and everyone so well in the last minutes and said such touching things to the son; or Pierre, who was a pity to see, he was so crushed, but who nevertheless tried to hide his sorrow, so as not to upset his dying father. “C'est pénible, mais cela fait du bien; ça élève * l'âme de voir des hommes comme le vieux comte et son digne fils,” she said. She also told disapprovingly about the actions of the princess and Prince Vassily, but as a great secret and in a whisper.

XXII At Bald Hills, the estate of Prince Nikolai Andreevich Bolkonsky, the arrival of the young Prince Andrei and the princess was expected any day; but that expectation did not disrupt the harmonious order in which life went on in the old prince's house. General in † Chief Prince Nikolai Andreevich, known in society as le roi de Prusse, had been banished to his country estate under Paul, and had lived uninterruptedly at Bald Hills ever since, with his daughter, Princess Marya, and her companion, Mlle Bourienne. And under the new reign, though he was permitted entry to the capitals,42 he went on living uninterruptedly in the country, saying that anyone who needed him could travel the hundred miles from Moscow to Bald Hills, but that he himself needed no one and nothing. He used to say that there were only two sources of human vice: idleness and superstition; and that there were only two virtues: activity and intelligence. He occupied himself personally with his daughter's upbringing, and to develop the two chief virtues in her, gave her lessons in algebra and geometry and portioned out her whole life among constant studies. He himself was constantly occupied, now with writing his memoirs, now with higher mathematical calculations, now with turning snuff boxes on a lathe, now with working in the garden and supervising the construction work that never ceased on his estate. As the main condition for activity was order, so the order in his way of life was brought to the utmost degree of precision. His coming to the table was performed under the same invariable conditions, and not only at the same hour, but at the same minute. With the people around him, from his daughter to the servants, the prince was brusque and invariably demanding, and thus, without being cruel, inspired a fear and respect for himself such as the cruelest of men would not find it easy to obtain. Though he was retired and now had no importance in state affairs, every governor of the province in which the prince's estate lay considered it his duty to call on him and, like the architect, the gardener, or Princess Marya, to wait at the appointed hour for the prince to come out to the high-ceilinged waiting room. And each person in the waiting room experienced the same feeling of respect and even fear at the moment when the immensely high door to the study opened and revealed the small figure of the old man, in a powdered wig, with small dry hands and gray beetling brows, which sometimes, when he frowned, hid the brightness of his intelligent and youthfully bright eyes. On the day of the young couple's arrival, in the morning, as usual, Princess Marya went into the waiting room at the appointed hour for the morning greeting and fearfully * It's painful, but it does one good; it elevates the soul to see men like the old count and his worthy son. † The king of Prussia.

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crossed herself and inwardly recited a prayer. Every day she went in and every day she prayed that this daily meeting would go well. A powdered old servant who was sitting in the waiting room got up with a quiet movement and in a whisper announced: “If you please.” From behind the door came the regular sounds of a lathe. The princess timidly pulled the easily and smoothly opening door and stopped in the doorway. The prince was working at the lathe and, having glanced at her, went on with what he was doing. The immense study was filled with things obviously in constant use. The big table with books and plans lying on it, the tall bookcases with keys in their glass doors, the tall table for writing in a standing position, on which lay an open notebook, the lathe with tools laid out and wood shavings strewn around it—everything spoke of constant, diverse, and orderly activity. By the movements of the small foot shod in a silver-embroidered Tartar boot, by the firm pressure of the sinewy, lean hand, one could see in the prince the still persistent and much-enduring strength of fresh old age. Having made a few more turns, he took his foot from the pedal of the lathe, wiped the chisel, dropped it into a leather pouch attached to the lathe, and, going to the table, called his daughter over. He never blessed his children, but, offering her his bristly, as yet unshaven cheek and giving her a stern and at the same time attentively tender look, merely said: “Are you well? ... Sit down, then!” He took the geometry notebook, written in his own hand, and moved a chair over with his foot. “For tomorrow!” he said, quickly finding the page and marking it paragraph by paragraph with his hard fingernail. The princess bent to the table over the notebook. “Wait, there's a letter for you,” the old man said suddenly, taking an envelope with a woman's handwriting on it from a pouch attached to the table and dropping it in front of her. At the sight of the letter, the princess's face became covered with red blotches. She hastily took it and bent over it. “From Héloïse?”43 asked the prince, baring his still strong and yellowish teeth in a cold smile. “Yes, from Julie,” said the princess, glancing up timidily and smiling timidly. “I'll skip two letters and read the third,” the prince said sternly. “I'm afraid you write a lot of nonsense. I'll read the third.” “You can read this one, mon père,” the princess replied, blushing still more and handing him the letter. “The third, I said, the third,” the prince shouted curtly, pushing the letter away, and, leaning his elbow on the table, he drew the notebook with geometric drawings towards him. “Well, ma'am,” the old man began, bending close to his daughter over the notebook and putting one arm on the back of the chair in which the princess was sitting, so that the princess felt herself surrounded on all sides by her father's smell of tobacco and pungent old age, which she had known so long. “Well, ma'am, these triangles are similar; kindly look, the angle ABC...” The princess glanced fearfully at her father's bright eyes, so near to her; red blotches came over her face, and it was obvious that she understood nothing, and was so afraid that fear would prevent her from understanding all of her father's further explanations, however clear they were. Whether it was the teacher or the pupil who was at fault, the same thing repeated itself each day: the princess felt giddy, saw nothing, heard nothing, but only felt the lean face of her stern father near her, felt his breathing and his smell, and thought only of how to get out of the study as quickly as possible and work out the 74

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problem in the freedom of her own room. The old man would get beside himself: he would noisily move the chair he was sitting in back and forth, try hard to keep himself from flying into a rage, and almost always flew into a rage, poured out abuse, and sometimes flung the notebook away. The princess gave the wrong answer. “Well, aren't you a fool!” shouted the prince, shoving the notebook away, but he got up at once, paced about, touched the princess's hair with his hands, and sat down again. He moved closer and continued his explanations. “It won't do, Princess, it won't do,” he said, when the princess, having taken and closed the notebook with the next day's lesson, was getting ready to leave. “Mathematics is a great thing, my lady. And I don't want you to be like our stupid women here. Much patience, much pleasure.” He patted her on the cheek. “It will knock the foolishness out of your head.” She was about to leave, but he gestured for her to stop and took a new, uncut book from the tall table. “Here's some Key to the Mystery44 your Héloïse sends you. Religious. But I don't interfere with anyone's beliefs... I've looked through it. Take it. Well, off with you, off with you!” He patted her on the shoulder and locked the door behind her himself. Princess Marya went back to her room with the sad, frightened expression which rarely left her and made her unattractive, sickly face still more unattractive, and sat down at her desk, covered with miniature portraits and heaped with books and notebooks. The princess was as disorderly as her father was orderly. She put down her geometry notebook and impatiently unsealed the letter. The letter was from the princess's closest childhood friend; this friend was that same Julie Karagin who had been at the Rostovs' name-day party. Julie wrote: Chère et excellente amie, quelle chose terrible et effrayante que l'absence! J'ai beau me dire que la moitié de mon existence et de mon bonheur est en vous, que malgré la distance qui nous sépare, nos coeurs sont unis par des liens indissolubles; le mien se révolte contre la destinée, et je ne puis, malgré les plaisirs et les distractions qui m'entourent, vaincre une certaine tristesse cachée que je ressens au fond du coeur depuis notre séparation. Pourquoi ne sommes-nous pas réunies, comme cette été dans votre grand cabinet sur le canapé bleu, le canapé à confidences? Pourquoi ne puis-je, comme il y a trois mois, puiser de nouvelles forces morales dans votre regard si doux, si calme et si pénétrant, regard que j'aimais tant et que je crois voir devant moi, quand je vous écris?* Having read that far, Princess Marya sighed and glanced into the pier glass that stood to the right of her. The mirror reflected an unattractive, weak body and a thin face. Her eyes, always sad, now looked into the mirror with particular hopelessness. “She's flattering me,” thought the princess, and she turned away and went on reading. Julie, however, was not flattering her friend: indeed, the princess's eyes, large, deep, and luminous (sometimes it was as if rays of warm light came from them in sheaves), were so beautiful that very often, despite the unattractiveness of the whole face, those eyes were more attractive than * Dear and excellent friend, what a terrible and frightening thing is absence! Though I tell myself that half of my existence and of my happiness is in you, that despite the distance which separates us, our hearts are united by indissoluble bonds, my own heart revolts against destiny, and despite the pleasures and distractions that surround me, I am unable to overcome a certain hidden sadness which I feel at the bottom of my heart since our separation. Why are we not reunited, as this summer in your big study on the blue couch, the couch of confidences? Why can I not, as three months ago, draw new moral strength from your look, so gentle, so calm, so penetrating, that look I loved so much and that I think I see before me as I write to you?

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beauty. But the princess had never seen the good expression of those eyes, the expression they had in moments when she was not thinking of herself. As with all people, the moment she looked in the mirror, her face assumed a strained, unnatural, bad expression. She went on reading: Tout Moscou ne parle que guerre.* L'un de mes deux frères est déjà a l'étranger, l'autre est avec la garde, qui se met en marche vers la frontière. Notre cher empereur a quitté Pétersbourg et, à ce qu'on prétend, compte lui-même exposer sa précieuse existence aux chances de la guerre. Dieu veuille que le monstre corsicain, qui détruit le repos de l'Europe, soit terrassé par l'ange que le tout-puissant, dans sa All Moscow talks only of war. One of my two brothers is already abroad, the other is with the guards, who are starting on the march to the frontier. Our dear emperor has left Petersburg and, they claim, is intending to expose his own precious existence to the hazards of war. God grant that the Corsican monster, who is destroying the peace of Europe, be overthrown by the angel whom the Almighty, in His mercy, has given us for a sovereign. Not to mention my brothers, this war has deprived me of a relation that is one of the dearest to my heart. I am speaking of young Nikolai Rostov, who with his enthusiasm could not bear inaction and has left the university to go and enlist in the army. Well, dear Marie, I'll admit to you that, despite his extreme youth, his leaving for the army has been a great sadness for me. The young man, of whom I spoke to you this summer, has so much nobility, so much true youthfulness, which one encounters so rarely in the age we live in among our old men of twenty. Above all he has so much candor and heart. He is so pure and poetical that my relations with him, ephemeral as they were, have been one of the sweetest joys of my poor heart, which has already suffered so much. One day I'll tell you about our farewells and all that got said in parting. It's all still too fresh. Ah! dear friend, you are fortunate not to know these so poignant joys and sorrows. You are fortunate, because the latter—are usually the stronger! I know very well that Count Nikolai is too young ever to be able to be anything more than a friend to me, but this sweet friendship, these relations, so poetical and so pure, have been a need of my heart. But let us speak no more of that. The big news of the day, with which all Moscow is taken up, is the death of old Count Bezukhov and his inheritance. Imagine, the three princesses got very little, Prince Vassily nothing, and it is M. Pierre who has inherited everything, and who on top of that has been recognized as a legitimate son, consequently as Count Bezukhov and possessor of the handsomest fortune in Russia. They claim that Prince Vassily played a very nasty role in this whole story and that he has gone back quite sheepishly to Petersburg. I confess to you that I understand very little of all these matters of legacies and wills; what I do know is that since the young man we knew simply under the name of M. Pierre has become Count Bezukhov and possessor of one of the largest fortunes in Russia, I have been much amused to observe the changes of tone and manners of mamas burdened with marriageable daughters and of the young ladies themselves with regard to this individual, who, parenthetically, has always seemed a poor sort to me. Since people have amused themselves for the past two years by making matches for me that I mostly knew nothing about, the matrimonial chronicle of Moscow is now making me Countess Bezukhov. But you can feel very well that I do not care at all to become that. Speaking of marriage, do you know that the “aunt in general” Anna Mikhailovna, under the seal of the greatest secrecy, has confided to me a plan to get you married? It is no more nor less than the son of Prince Vassily, Anatole, whom they would like to set up by marrying him to a rich and distinguished person, and the choice of the parents has fallen on you. I do not know how you would look at it, but I thought it my duty to warn you of it. He's said to be very handsome and a very bad boy; that is all I have been able to learn about him. But enough of this chattering. I am finishing my second sheet, and mama has sent for me to go to dinner at the Apraksins. Read the mystical book I am sending you and that is causing a furor here. Though there are things in this book that are hard to grasp with weak human understanding, it is an admirable book, the reading of which calms and elevates the soul. Farewell. My respects to your father and my compliments to Mlle Bourienne. I embrace you as I love you. Julie. P.S. Give me news of your brother and his charming little wife. *

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miséricorde, nous a donné pour souverain. Sans parler de mes frères, cette guerre m'a privée d'une relation des plus chères à mon coeur. Je parle du jeune Nicolas Rostoff, qui avec son enthousiasme n'a pu supporter l'inaction et a quitté l'université pour aller s'enrôler dans l'armée. Eh bien, chère Marie, je vous avouerai, que, malgré son extrême jeunesse, son départ pour l'armée a été un grand chagrin pour moi. Le jeune homme, dont je vous parlais cet été, a tant de noblesse, de veritable jeunesse qu'on rencontre si rarement dans le siècle où nous vivons parmi nos viellards de vingt ans. Il a surtout tant de franchise et de coeur. Il est tellement pur et poétique, que mes relations avec lui, quelques passagères qu'elles fussent, ont été l'une des plus douces jouissances de mon pauvre coeur, qui a déjà tant souffert. Je vous raconterai un jour nos adieux et tout ce qui s'est dit en partant. Tout cela est encore trop frais. Ah! chère amie, vous êtes heureuse de ne pas connaître ces jouissances et ces peines si poignantes. Vous êtes heureuse, puisque les dernières—sont ordinairement les plus fortes! Je sais fort bien que le comte Nicolas est trop jeune pour pouvoir jamais devenir pour moi quelque chose de plus qu'un ami, mais cette douce amitié, ces relations si poétiques et si pures ont été un besoin pour mon coeur. Mais n'en parlons plus. La grande nouvelle du jour qui occupe tout Moscou est la mort du vieux comte Bezukhov et son héritage. Figurez-vous que les trois princesses n'ont reçu que très peu de chose, le prince Basile rien, et que c'est M. Pierre qui a tout hérité, et qui par-dessus le marché a été reconnu pour fils légitime, par conséquant comte Bezukhov et possesseur de la plus belle fortune de la Russie. On prétend que le prince Basile a joué un très vilain rôle dans toute cette histoire et qu'il est reparti tout penaud pour Pétersbourg. Je vous avoue, que je comprends très peu toutes ces affaires de legs et de testament; ce que je sais, c'est que depuis que le jeune homme que nous connaissions tous sous le nom de M. Pierre tout court est devenu comte Bezukhov et possesseur de l'une des plus grandes fortunes de la Russie, je m'amuse fort à observer les changements de ton et des manières dès mamans accablées de filles à marier et des demoiselles elles-mêmes à l'égard de cet individu, qui, par parenthèse, m'a paru toujours être un pauvre sire. Comme on s'amuse depuis deux ans à me donner des promis que je ne connais pas le plus souvent, la chronique matrimoniale de Moscou me fait comtesse Bezukhov. Mais vous sentez bien que je ne me soucie nullement de le devenir. A propos de mariage, savez-vous que tout dernièrement la “tante en générale” Anna Mikhailovna m'a confié sous le sceau du plus grand secret un projet de mariage pour vous. Ce n'est ni plus ni moins, que le fils du prince Basile, Anatole, qu'on voudrait ranger en le mariant à une personne riche et distinguée, et c'est sur vous qu'est tombé le choix des parents. ]e ne sais comment vous envisagerez la chose, mais j'ai cru de mon devoir de vous en avertir. On le dit très beau et très mauvais sujet; c'est tout ce que j'ai pu savoir sur son compte. Mais assez de bavardage comme cela. Je finis mon second feuillet, et maman me fait chercher pour aller dîner chez les Apraksines. Lisez le livre mystique que je vous envoie et qui fait fureur chez nous. Quoiqu'il y ait des choses dans ce livre difficiles à atteindre avec la faible conception humaine, c'est un livre admirable dont la lecture calme et élève l'âme. Adieu. Mes respects à monsieur votre père et mes compliments à mlle Bourienne. Je vous embrasse comme je vous aime. Julie. P.S. Donnez-moi des nouvelles de votre frère et de sa charmante petite femme. The princess pondered, smiled pensively (at which her face, lit up by her luminous eyes, was completely transformed) and, suddenly getting up, went with her heavy step to the desk. She took out some paper, and her hand quickly began moving across it. This is what she wrote in reply: Chère et excellente amie.* Votre lettre du 13 m'a causé une grande joie. Vous m'aimez donc toujours, ma poétique Julie. L'absence, dont vous dites tant de mal, n'a donc pas eu son influence habituelle sur * Dear and excellent friend. Your letter of the 13th gave me great joy. So you still love me, my poetical Julie. Absence, of which you say such bad things, has thus not had its usual influence on you. You complain about absence—what would I have to say if I dared to complain, deprived of all those who are dear to me? Ah! if we did not have religion to console us, life would be quite sad. Why do you suppose me to have a stern look when you speak to me of your affection for the young man? In that connection I am strict only with myself. I understand these feelings in others and if I cannot approve of them, never having felt them, I do not condemn them. It only seems to me that

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vous. Vous vous plaignez de l'absence—que devrai-je dire moi si j'osais me plaindre, privée de tous ceux qui me sont chers? Ah! si nous n'avions pas la religion pour nous consoler, la vie serait bien triste. Christian love, the love of one's neighbor, the love for one's enemies, is more meritorious, sweeter, and more beautiful than are the feelings that the beautiful eyes of a young man can inspire in a poetical and loving young girl like you. The news of the death of Count Bezukbov reached us before your letter, and my father was much affected by it. He says that he was the next-to-last representative of the grand century, and that now it is his turn; but that he will do his best to put his turn off as long as possible. God keeps us from that terrible misfortune! I cannot share your opinion of Pierre, whom I knew as a child. He always seemed to me to have an excellent heart, and that is the quality I esteem the most in people. As for his inheritance and the role Prince Vassily played in it, it is a sad thing for them both. Ah! dear friend, the word of our divine Savior, that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God, that word is terribly true; I pity Prince Vassily and I feel even sorrier for Pierre. So young and burdened with such wealth, what temptations he will have to endure! If I were asked what I would like most in the world, it would be to be poorer than the poorest beggar. A thousand thanks, dear friend, for the work you have sent me, and which is causing such a furor there. However, since you tell me that amidst several good things there are others that weak human understanding cannot grasp, it would seem to me rather useless to occupy myself with unintelligible reading matter; which by that very fact cannot be of any fruit. I have never been able to understand the passion certain persons have for muddling their wits by fastening upon mystical books, which only awaken doubts in their minds, excite their imagination, and give them an exaggerated character totally contrary to Christian simplicity. Let us read the Apostles and the Gospel. Let us not seek to penetrate what they contain of the mysterious, for how should we dare aspire, miserable sinners that we are, to initiate ourselves into the terrible and sacred secrets of Providence, so long as we wear this fleshly husk, which raises an impenetrable veil between us and the eternal? Let us limit ourselves, then, to studying the sublime principles th at our divine Savior has left us for our conduct here below; let us seek to conform ourselves to them and to follow them, let us persuade ourselves that the less flight we give to our weak human spirit, the more pleasing it is to God, who rejects all science that does not come from him; that the less we seek to delve into what he has been pleased to conceal from our knowledge, the sooner he will grant us the discovery of it through his divine spirit. My father did not speak to me of the suitor, he only told me that he had received a letter and was awaiting a visit from Prince Vassily. As for the marriage plan regarding me, I shall tell you, dear and excellent friend, that for me marriage is a divine institution to which one must conform oneself. However painful it may be for me, if the Almighty ever imposes upon me the duties of a wife and mother, I shall try to fulfill them as faithfully as I can, without troubling myself with the examination of my feelings regarding him whom he will give me for a husband. I have received a letter from my brother, who announces his arrival at Bald Hills with his wife. This will be a short-lived joy, since he is leaving us to take part in this wretched war, into which we are being dragged God knows how or why. Not just with you there in the center of affairs and of the world is there talk only of war, but here, in the midst of these rural labors and this calm of nature which city dwellers usually picture to themselves in the country, the noise of war makes itself heard and felt painfully. My father speaks of nothing but marches and countermarches, things of which I have no understanding; and the day before yesterday, while going for my usual stroll along the village street, I was witness to a heartrending scene ... It was a convoy of recruits enlisted from our estate and being sent off to the army ... You should have seen the state that the mothers, the wives, the children of these departing men were in, and heard the sobs on both sides! You would think that humanity has forgotten the laws of its divine Savior, who preached love and the forgiveness of transgressions, and that it finds its greatest merit in the art of mutual killing. Farewell, dear and good friend. May our divine Savior and his most holy Mother keep you in their holy and powerful care. Marie.

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Pourquoi me supposez-vous un regard sévère, quand vous me parlez de votre affection pour le jeune homme? Sous ce rapport je ne suis rigide que pour moi. Je comprends ces sentiments chez les autres et si je ne puis approuver ne les ayant jamais ressentis, je ne les condamne pas. Il me parait seulement que l'amour Chrétien, l'amour du prochain, l'amour pour ses ennemis est plus méritoire, plus doux et plus beau, que ne le sont les sentiments que peuvent inspirer les beaux yeux d'un jeune homme à une jeune fille poétique et aimante comme vous. La nouvelle de la mort du comte Bezukhov nous est parvenue avant votre lettre, et mon père en a été très affecté. Il dit que c'était l'avant-dernier représentant du grand siècle, et qu'a présent c'est son tour; mais qu'il fera son possible pour que son tour vienne le plus tard possible. Que Dieu nous garde de ce terrible malheur! Je ne puis partager votre opinion sur Pierre que j'ai connu enfant. Il me paraissait toujours avoir un coeur excellent, et c'est la qualité que j'estime le plus dans les gens. Quant à son héritage et au rôle qu'y a joué le prince Basile, c'est bien triste pour tous les deux. Ah! chere amie, la parole de notre divin Sauveur qu'il est plus aisé à un chameau de passer par le trou d'une aiguille, qu'il ne l'est à un riche d'entrer dans le royaume de Dieu, cette parole est terriblement vraie; je plains le prince Basile et je regrette encore davantage Pierre. Si jeune et accablé de cette richesse, que de tentations n'aura-t-il pas a subir! Si on me demandait ce que je désirerais le plus au monde, ce serait d'être plus pauvre que le plus pauvre des mendiants, Mille grâces, chère amie, pour l'ouvrage que vous m'envoyez, et qui fait si grande fureur chez vous. Cependant, puisque vous me dites qu'au milieu de plusieurs bonnes choses il y en a d'autres que la faible conception humaine ne peut atteindre, il me paraît assez inutile de s'occuper d'une lecture inintelligible; qui par là même, ne pourrait être d'aucun fruit. Je n'ai jamais pu comprendre la passion qu'ont certaines personnes de s'embrouiller l'entendement, en s'attachant à des livres mystiques, qui n'élèvent que des doutes dans leurs esprits, exaltent leur imagination et leur donnent un charactère d'exagération tout-à-fait contraire à la simplicité Chrétienne. Lisons les Apôtres et l'Évangile. Ne cherchons pas à pénétrer ce que ceux-là renferment de mystérieux, car, comment oserions-nous, misérable pécheurs que nous sommes, prétendre à nous initier dans les secrets terribles et sacrés de la Providence, tant que nous portons cette dépouille charnelle, qui élève entre nous et l'éternel un voile impénétrable? Bornons-nous donc à étudier les principes sublimes que notre divin Sauveur nous a laissé pour notre conduite ici-bas; cherchons à nous y conformer et à les suivre, persuadons-nous que moins nous donnons d'essor à notre faible esprit humain et plus il est agréable à Dieu, qui rejette toute science ne venant pas de lui; que moins nous cherchons à approfondir ce qu'il lui a plu de dérober à notre connaissance, et plutôt il nous en accordera la découverte par son divin esprit. Mon père ne m'a pas parlé du prétendant, mais il m'a dit seulement qu'il a reçu une lettre et attendait une visite du prince Basile. Pour ce qui est du projet de mariage qui me regarde, je vous dirai, chère et excellente amie, que le mariage, selon moi, est une institution divine à laquelle il faut se conformer. Quelque pénible que cela soit pour moi, si le Tout-puissant m'impose jamais les devoirs d'épouse et de mère, je tâcherai de les remplir aussi fidèlement que je le pourrai, sans m'inquieter de l'examen de mes sentiments à l'égard de celui qu'il me donnera pour époux. J'ai reçu une lettre de mon frère, qui m'annonce son arrivée à Bald Hills avec sa femme. Ce sera une joie de courte durée, puisqu'il nous quitte pour prendre part à cette malheureuse guerre, à laquelle nous sommes entraînés Dieu sait comment et pourquoi. Non seulement chez vous au centre des affaires et du monde on ne parle que de guerre, mais ici, au milieu de ces travaux champêtres et de ce calme de la nature que les citadins se représentent ordinairement à la campagne, les bruits de la guerre se font entendre et sentir péniblement. Mon père ne parle que marche et contremarche, choses auxquelles je ne comprends rien; et avant hier en faisant ma promenade habituelle dans la rue du village, je fus témoin d'une scène déchirante ... C'était un convoi des recrues enrôlées chez nous et expédiées pour l'armée ... Il fallait voir l'état dans lequel se trouvaient les mères, les femmes, les enfants des hommes qui partaient et entendre les sanglots des uns et des autres! On dirait que l'humanité a oublié les lois de son divin Sauveur, qui prêchait l'amour et le pardon des offenses, et qu'elle fait consister son plus grand mérite dans l'art de s'entretuer. Adieu, chère et bonne amie, que notre divin Sauveur et sa très sainte Mère vous aient en leur sainte et puissante garde. Marie.

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“Ah, vous expédiez le courrier, princesse, moi j'ai déjà expédié le mien. J'ai écris à ma * pauvre mère,” the smiling Mlle Bourienne spoke in a quick, pleasant, juicy little voice, swallowing her r's and bringing with her into the concentrated, sad, and dreary atmosphere of Princess Marya a completely different, frivolously gay and self-contented world. “Princesse, il faut que je vous prévienne,” she added, lowering her voice, “le prince a eu une altercation,” she said, deliberately swallowing her r's and listening to herself with pleasure, “une altercation avec Michel Ivanoff. II est de très mauvaise humeur, très morose. Soyez prévenue, vous savez ...”† “Ah, chère amie,” answered Princess Marya, “je vous ai priée de ne jamais me prévenir de l'humeur dans laquelle se trouve mon père. Je ne me permets pas de le juger, et je ne voudrais pas que les autres le fassent.”‡ The princess glanced at her watch and noticing that she was already five minutes late for playing the clavichord, went with a frightened face to the sitting room. According to the established order of the day, between noon and two o'clock the prince rested and the princess played the clavichord.

XXIII The gray-haired valet sat dozing and listening to the prince's snoring in the immense study. From the far side of the house, from behind a closed door, came the sounds of a Dusek sonata,45 the difficult passages repeated twenty times. Just then a carriage and a britzka drove up to the porch, and from the carriage stepped Prince Andrei, who helped his little wife out and allowed her to go ahead. Grayhaired Tikhon, in a wig, stuck himself out the door of the waiting room, said in a whisper that the prince was sleeping, and hastily closed the door. Tikhon knew that neither the son's arrival nor any sort of extraordinary event was to interrupt the order of the day. Prince Andrei evidently knew it as well as Tikhon; he looked at his watch, as if to check whether his father's habits had changed during the time he had not seen him, and, verifying that they had not, turned to his wife. “He'll get up in twenty minutes. Let's go to Princess Marya,” he said. The little princess had filled out during this time, but her eyes and her short lip with its little mustache and smile rose as gaily and sweetly as ever when she began to speak. “Mais c'est un palais,” she said to her husband, looking around with the expression of § someone paying compliments to the host at a ball. “Allons, vite, vite!...” Looking about, she smiled at Tikhon, and at her husband, and at the servant who accompanied them. ** “C'est Marie qui s'exerce? Allons doucement, il faut la surprendre,” Prince Andrei walked behind her with a polite and sad expression. “You've aged, Tikhon,” he said to the old man, who kissed his hand as he passed. Before the room from which the sounds of the clavichord came, a pretty blonde Frenchwoman popped out of a side door. Mlle Bourienne seemed wildly ecstatic. “Ah! quel bonheur pour la princesse,” she said. “Enfin! Il faut que je la prévienne.”††

Ah, you're sending a letter, Princess; I've already sent mine. I wrote to my poor mother. Princess, I must warn you . . . the prince has had an altercation ... an altercation with Mikhail Ivanov. He's in a very bad humor, very morose. Be warned, you know ... ‡ Ah! dear friend . . . I've begged you never to warn me of the humor my father happens to be in. I do not allow myself to judge him, and I would prefer that others not do so. *

†

§

Why, it's a palace ... Let's go, quickly, quickly! ...

**

Is that Marie practicing? Let's go quietly, we must surprise her. Ah! what happiness for the princess ... At last! I must inform her.

††

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“Non, non, de grâce ... Vous êtes Mlle Bourienne, je vous connais déjà par l'amitié que * vous porte ma belle-soeur,” said the princess, kissing her. “Elle ne nous attend pas!” They went up to the door of the sitting room, through which came the sounds of the same passage repeated again and again. Prince Andrei stopped and winced, as if expecting something unpleasant. The princess went in. The passage broke off in the middle; a cry was heard, then the heavy footsteps of Princess Marya and the sounds of kissing. When Prince Andrei went in, the two princesses, who had seen each other only once for a short time at Prince Andrei's wedding, were standing with their arms around each other, their lips pressed hard to whatever place they had happened upon in the first moment. Mlle Bourienne was standing beside them, her hands pressed to her heart, smiling piously, apparently as ready to weep as to laugh. Prince Andrei shrugged his shoulders and winced, as music lovers wince when they hear a false note. The two women let go of each other, then again, as if fearing it would be too late, seized each other by the hands, began kissing, tore their hands away, and then again began kissing each other on the face, and, quite unexpectedly for Prince Andrei, they both wept and began to kiss again. Mlle Bourienne also wept. Prince Andrei obviously felt awkward; but for the two women it seemed natural to weep; it seemed it had never occurred to them that their meeting could be otherwise. “Ah! chère! ... Ah! Marie! ...” the two women suddenly began to speak and then laughed. “J'ai rêvé cette nuit ...” “Vous ne nous attendiez donc pas? ...” “Ah, Marie, vous avez maigri, , ,” “Et vous avez repris...”† “J'ai tout de suite reconnu madame la princesse, “‡ Mlle Bourienne put in. “Et moi qui ne me doutais pas! ...” exclaimed Princess Marya. “Ah! André, je ne vous § voyais pas.” Prince Andrei and his sister kissed each other's hands, and he told her she was the same pleurnicheuse** she had always been. Princess Marya turned to her brother, and through her tears the loving, warm, and meek gaze of her big, luminous eyes, very beautiful at that moment, rested on Prince Andrei's face. The little princess talked nonstop. Her short upper lip with its mustache would momentarily flit down, touching, where it had to, the rosy lower lip, and open up again in a smile of gleaming teeth and eyes. She told about an incident that had happened to her on Spasskoe Hill, which was dangerous for her in her condition, and just after that said she had left all her dresses in Petersburg and would go about here in God knows what, and that Andrei was quite changed, and that Kitty Ordyntsev had married an old man, and that †† there was a suitor for Princess Marya pour tout de bon, but we'll talk about that later. Princess Marya went on silently looking at her brother, and there was love and sadness in her beautiful eyes. It was clear that she had established her own train of thought, independent of her sister-in-law's talk. In the middle of her story about the last fête in Petersburg, she addressed her brother. “And you're decidedly going to the war, André?” she said, sighing. Lise also sighed. “Tomorrow even,” her brother answered. * No, no, please ... You are Mlle Bourienne, I know you already by the friendship my sister-inlaw feels for you ... She's not expecting us! † Ah! dear! ... Ah! Marie! ... I dreamed last night... So you weren't expecting us? ... Ah, Marie, you've grown thinner . . . And you have put on weight. . . ‡ And I recognized madame the princess at once. § And I had no idea! . . . Ah! André, I didn't see you. ** Crybaby. †† In all reality.

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*

“Il m'abondonne ici et Dieu sait pourquoi, quand il aurait pu avoir de l'avancement....” Princess Marya did not finish listening and, continuing with the thread of her thoughts, turned to her sister-in-law, her gentle eyes indicating her stomach. “Is it certain?” she asked. The princess's face changed. She sighed. “Yes, certain,” she said. “Ah! It's very frightening...” Liza's little lip lowered. She brought her face close to her sister-in-law's face and again wept unexpectedly. “She needs rest,” said Prince Andrei, wincing. “Isn't it so, Liza? Take her to your rooms, and I'll go to Father. How is he, the same?” “The same, yes, the same; I don't know whether in your eyes,” the princess replied joyfully. “The same hours, and the strolls in the avenues? The lathe?” asked Prince Andrei with a barely perceptible smile, which showed that, despite all his love and respect for his father, he was aware of his weaknesses. “The same hours, and the lathe, also mathematics, and my geometry lessons,” Princess Marya replied joyfully, as though her lessons in geometry were one of the most joyful impressions of her life. When they had waited out the twenty minutes until it was time for the old prince to get up, Tikhon came to summon the young prince to his father. In honor of his son's arrival, the old man had made an exception in his way of life; he gave orders to allow him into his part of the house while he was still dressing for dinner. The prince held to the old fashion of wearing a kaftan and powdering his hair. And at the moment when Prince Andrei (not with that peevish expression and manner he assumed in drawing rooms, but with the same animated face he had when he talked with Pierre) came to his father's, the old man was sitting in his dressing room, on a wide morocco-upholstered armchair, in a powdering mantle, entrusting his head to Tikhon's hands. “Ah! The warrior! So you want to defeat Bonaparte?” said the old man, shaking his powdered head as much as the braided queue, which was in Tikhon's hands, would let him. “At least give him a good drubbing, or pretty soon he'll be writing us down, too, as his subjects. Greetings!” And he offered his cheek. The old man was in high spirits following his before-dinner nap. (He used to say that an after-dinner nap was silver, but a before-dinner nap was gold.) He joyfully cast sidelong glances at his son from under his thick, beetling brows. Prince Andrei went up and kissed his father on the place indicated to him. He did not respond to his father's favorite subject—poking fun at the present-day military, and especially at Bonaparte. “Yes, I've come to see you, Papa, and with a pregnant wife,” said Prince Andrei, his animated and respectful eyes following the movement of every feature of his father's face. “How is your health?” “Only fools and profligates can be unwell, my boy, and you know me: I'm busy from morning till evening, I'm temperate, and so I'm well.” “Thank God,” his son said, smiling. “God has nothing to do with it. Well, tell me,” he went on, getting back on his hobbyhorse, “how have the Germans taught you to fight Bonaparte by this new science of yours known as strategy?” Prince Andrei smiled. “Let me collect my wits, papa,” he said, with a smile which showed that his father's weaknesses did not prevent him from loving and respecting him. “I haven't even settled in,” “Nonsense, nonsense,” cried the old man, shaking his queue to see whether it was *

He's abandoning me here and God knows why, when he could have had a promotion ...

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tightly braided and seizing his son's arm. “The house is ready for your wife. Princess Marya will take her around and show her and babble three cartloads. That's their womanish business. I'm glad of her. Sit down, tell me. Mi-khelson's army I understand, and Tolstoy's ... a simultaneous landing ... What's the southern army going to do? Prussia, neutrality ... that I know. What about Austria?” he said, getting up from his chair and pacing the room, with Tikhon running after him and handing him pieces of clothing. “What about Sweden? How will they cross Pomerania?”46 Seeing his father's insistent demand, Prince Andrei, reluctantly at first, but then with more and more animation, and inadvertently switching from Russian to French, out of habit, in the middle of his discourse, began to explain the plan of operations for the proposed campaign. He told how a ninety-thousand-man army was to threaten Prussia, so as to draw her out of neutrality and involve her in the war, how part of that army was to unite with the Swedish army in Strahlsund, how two hundred and twenty thousand Austrians, united with a hundred thousand Russians, were to go into action in Italy and on the Rhine, and how fifty thousand Russians and fifty thousand English would land at Naples, and how in all a five-hundred-thousand-strong army was to attack the French from different sides. The old prince showed not the slightest interest during the telling, as though he was not listening, and, continuing to dress as he paced, interrupted him three times unexpectedly. Once he stopped him and shouted: “The white one! the white one!” This meant that Tikhon had not handed him the waistcoat he wanted. Another time he stopped, asked: “And how soon will she give birth?” and, shaking his head reproachfully, said: “Not good! Go on, go on.” The third time, as Prince Andrei was finishing his description, the old man sang in an old man's off-key voice: “Malbroug s'en va-t-en guerre. Dieu sait quand reviendra.”*47 His son merely smiled. “I'm not saying that this is a plan I approve of,” the son said, “I've only told you what's in it. Napoleon has already put together a plan no worse than this one.” “Well, you haven't told me anything new.” And the old man muttered pensively to himself in a quick patter: “Dieu sait quand reviendra. Go to the dining room.”

XXIV At the appointed hour, powdered and clean-shaven, the prince came out to the dining room, where he was awaited by his daughter-in-law, Princess Marya, Mlle Bourienne, and the prince's architect, who by the prince's strange caprice was admitted to the table, though by his insignificant position the man could in no way count on such an honor. The prince, who m his life kept firmly to social distinctions and rarely admitted even important provincial officials to the table, suddenly decided to demonstrate by means of the architect Mikhail Ivanovich, who used to blow his nose in the corner on a checkered handkerchief, that all men are equal, and more than once impressed it upon his daughter that Mikhail Ivanovich was no worse than you or I. At table the prince most often addressed himself to the wordless Mikhail Ivanovich. In the dining room, immensely high like all the rooms in the house, the prince's entrance was awaited by the domestics and servants standing behind each chair; the butler, a napkin over his arm, examined the place settings, winking to the lackeys and constantly shifting his anxious gaze from the wall clock to the door from which the prince was to appear. Prince Andrei was looking at a huge gilded frame, new to him, with a picture of the family tree of the princes Bolkonsky, which hung across the room from an *

Malbroug [Marlborough] is going to war. God knows when he'll come back.

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equally huge frame with a poorly painted portrait (obviously from the hand of a household artist) of a sovereign prince in a crown, who was supposed to be a descendant of Rurik and the first ancestor of the Bolkonsky family. Prince Andrei looked at this genealogical tree, shaking his head and chuckling with the air of someone looking at a portrait that is a ridiculously good likeness. “That's him all over!” he said to Prince Marya, who came up to him. Princess Marya looked at her brother in surprise. She did not understand what made him smile. Everything her father did evoked an awe in her which was not subject to discussion. “Every man has his Achilles' heel,” Prince Andrei went on. “With his enormous * intelligence, donner dans ce ridicule!” Princess Marya could not understand her brother's bold opinions and was getting ready to object to him when the awaited footsteps were heard from the study: the prince came in quickly, gaily, as he always did, as if deliberately contrasting his hasty manners to the strict order of the house. At the same moment, the big clock struck two and another in the drawing room responded in a high voice. The prince stopped; from under his thick, beetling brows, his lively, bright, Stern eyes looked around at everyone and rested on the young princess. The young princess experienced at that moment the feeling courtiers experience at the appearance of the tsar, that feeling of fear and respect which this old man evoked in all those around him. He stroked the princess's head and then, with an awkward gesture, patted her on the back of the neck. “Delighted, delighted,” he said and, looking her intently in the eye once again, quickly stepped away and sat down in his place. “Sit down, sit down! Mikhail Ivanovich, sit down.” He pointed his daughter-in-law to the place next to him. A servant pulled out the chair for her. “Ho, ho!” said the old man, looking at her rounded waist. “Rushing things; that's not good!” He laughed drily, coldly, unpleasantly, as he always laughed—only with his mouth, not with his eyes. “You must walk, walk as much as possible, as much as possible,” he said. The little princess either did not hear or did not want to hear his words. She was silent and seemed embarrassed. The prince asked about her father, and the princess began to speak and smiled. He asked her about mutual acquaintances: the princess became still more animated and started talking away, giving the prince greetings and town gossip. “La comtesse Apraksine, la pauvre, a perdu son mari et elle a pleuré les larmes de ses yeux,”† she said, becoming more and more animated. As her animation increased, the prince looked at her more and more sternly, and suddenly, as if he had studied her enough and arrived at a clear idea of her, turned away and addressed Mikhail Ivanovich. “Well, now, Mikhail Ivanovich, things are going badly for our friend Buonaparte. Prince Andrei” (he always referred to his son in the third person like this) “has just been telling me what forces are being prepared against him! But you and I always considered him an empty man.” Mikhail Ivanovich, who had no idea when this you and I had spoken such words about Bonaparte, but who understood that he was needed in order to launch into the favorite subject, looked at the young prince in surprise, not knowing what would come of it. “We have a great tactician here!” the prince said to his son, pointing to the architect. * †

To take to such ridiculousness. Countess Apraksin, poor woman, lost her husband and wept her eyes out.

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And the conversation turned again to the war, to Bonaparte, and to today's generals and statesmen. The old prince seemed to be convinced not only that all present-day men of action were mere boys, who did not even understand the ABC's of military and state affairs, and that Bonaparte was a worthless little Frenchman who was successful only because there were no Potemkins and Suvorovs to oppose him; but he was also convinced that there were no political difficulties in Europe, nor was there a war, but only some sort of marionette comedy that today's people played at, pretending they meant business. Prince Andrei cheerfully endured his father's mockery of the new people, and provoked his father to talk and listened to him with obvious delight. “All that there was before seems good,” he said, “but wasn't it that same Suvorov who 48 fell into the trap set for him by Moreau and was unable to get out of it?” “Who told you that? Who told you?” cried the prince. “Suvorov!” And he flung away his plate, which was deftly caught by Tikhon. “Suvorov! ... Think a little, Prince Andrei. Two men: Friedrich and Suvorov ... Moreau! Moreau would have been captured if Suvorov 49 had had a free hand; but he had the Hofs-kriegs-wurst-schnapps-rath on his hands. Even the devil wouldn't be glad of that. But go, and you'll learn about these Hofs-kriegs-wurstschnapps-raths! Suvorov couldn't get on with them, how is Mikhail Kutuzov going to do it?! No, my friend,” he went on, “you and your generals won't get around Bonaparte; you need to get hold of a Frenchman, so that their own don't know their own, and their own beat their own.50 They sent the German Pahlen to New York, to America, to fetch the Frenchman Moreau,”51 he said, alluding to the invitation made to Moreau that year to enter the Russian service, “Wonders!! What, were the Potemkins, the Suvorovs, the Orlovs Germans? No, brother, either you've all lost your wits there, or mine have burnt out. God help you, but we'll see. They take Bonaparte for a great general! Hm! ...” “I'm by no means saying that all the plans are good,” said Prince Andrei, “only I can't understand how you can make such a judgment about Bonaparte. Laugh all you like, but Bonaparte is still a great general!” “Mikhail Ivanovich!” the old prince cried to the architect, who, being busy with the roast, had hoped to be forgotten. “Didn't I tell you Bonaparte was a great tactician? Well, he says so, too.” “Sure thing, Your Excellency,” replied the architect. The prince again laughed his cold laugh. “Bonaparte was born lucky. He has excellent soldiers. And the Germans were the first he attacked. You'd have to be a do-nothing not to beat the Germans. Ever since the world began, everybody's beaten the Germans. And they've beaten nobody. Except each other. It was on them he earned his glory.” And the prince began to analyze all the mistakes which, to his way of thinking, Bonaparte had made in all his wars and even in state affairs. His son did not object, but it was clear that, whatever the arguments presented to him, he was as little able to change his opinion as the old prince was. Prince Andrei listened, holding back his objections, and involuntarily amazed at how this old man, who had sat alone in the country uninterruptedly for so many years, could know and discuss, in such detail and with such subtlety, all the military and political circumstances of Europe in recent years. “You think Em an old man and don't understand the real state of affairs,” he concluded. “But I have it all up here! I don't sleep nights. So, where has this great general of yours shown himself?” “That would be a long story,” said his son. “Off with you to your Buonaparte, then. Mademoiselle Bourienne, voilà encore un * admirateur de votre goujat d'empereur!” he shouted in excellent French. *

Mademoiselle Bourienne, here's another admirer of your boor of an emperor!

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“Vous savez que je ne suis pas bonapartiste, mon prince.” “Dieu sait quand reviendra ...” the prince sang off-key, laughed still more off-key, and left the table. All through the argument and the rest of dinner, the little princess was silent and kept glancing fearfully now at Princess Marya, now at her father-in-law. When they left the table, she took her sister-in-law by the arm and led her to another room. “Comme c'est un homme d'esprit, votre père,” she said, “c'est à cause de cela peut-être qu'il me fait peur,”† “Ah, he's so kind!” said the princess.

XXV Prince Andrei was leaving the next evening. The old prince, not abandoning his order, went to his rooms after dinner. The little princess was with her sister-in-law. Prince Andrei, dressed in a traveling frock coat without epaulettes, was packing with his valet in the rooms assigned to him. He personally saw to the carriage and the loading of the trunks, and ordered the horses harnessed up. All that remained in the room were the objects Prince Andrei always carried with him: a strongbox, a big silver cellaret, two Turkish pistols, and a saber— a present from his father, brought back from Ochakov. All these traveling accessories Prince Andrei kept in great order: everything was new, clean, in broadcloth covers, carefully tied with tapes. At moments of departure and a change of life, people capable of reflecting on their actions usually get into a serious state of mind. At these moments they usually take stock of the past and make plans for the future. Prince Andrei's face was very thoughtful and tender. His hands behind his back, he paced rapidly up and down the room, looking straight ahead and thoughtfully shaking his head. Was he afraid of going to the war, was he sad to be leaving his wife— perhaps both, but, evidently not wishing to be seen in such a state, when he heard footsteps in the hallway, he quickly unclasped his hands, stopped by the table, pretending to tie the tapes on the strongbox cover, and assumed his usual calm and impenetrable expression. They were the heavy footsteps of Princess Marya. “They told me you gave orders to harness up,” she said breathlessly (she had obviously come running), “and I wanted so much to talk more with you alone. God knows for how long we're parting again. You're not angry that I've come? You've changed very much, Andryusha,” she added, as if to explain her question. She smiled as she pronounced the name Andryusha. It must have been strange to her to think that this stern, handsome man was that same Andryusha, a thin, frolicsome boy, her childhood companion. “And where is Lise?” he asked, only smiling in answer to her question. “She was so tired that she fell asleep in my room on the sofa. Ah, André! Quel trésor de ‡ femme vous avez,” she said, sitting down on the sofa opposite her brother. “She's a perfect child, such a dear, merry child. I've come to love her so.” Prince Andrei was silent, but the princess noticed the ironic and scornful expression that appeared on his face. “But one must be indulgent towards little weaknesses—who doesn't have them, André! Don't forget that she grew up and was formed in society. And then, her position now isn't very rosy. One must enter into each person's position. Tout comprendre, c'est

You know I am not a Bonapartist, my prince. What a witty man your father is ... maybe that's why he scares me. ‡ Ah, Andrei! What a treasure of a wife you have. *

†

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tout pardonner. Just think how it is for the poor dear, in her condition, after the life she's used to, to part with her husband and remain alone in the country? It's very hard.” Prince Andrei smiled, looking at his sister, as we smile listening to people whom we think we can see through. “You live in the country, and you don't find this life so terrible,” he said. “I'm another matter. Why talk of me! I do not and cannot wish for any other life, because I don't know any other life. But think, André, for a young and worldly woman, in the best years of her life, to be buried in the country, alone, because papa's always busy, and I ... you know me ... how poor I am en ressources, for a woman accustomed to the best society. Mademoiselle Bourienne alone...” “I dislike her very much, your Bourienne,” said Prince Andrei. “Oh, no! She's a very dear and kind, and, above all, a pitiful girl. She has nobody, nobody. To tell the truth, she's not only unnecessary to me, she's even an inconvenience. You know, I've always been a wild creature, and now more than ever. I like being alone ... Mon père likes her very much. She and Mikhail Ivanovich are the two persons with whom 52 he's always gentle and kind, because he's their benefactor. As Sterne says: 'We love people not so much for the good they've done us, as for the good we've done them.' Mon père took her as an orphan sur le pavé,† and she's very kind. And mon père likes her way of reading. She reads aloud to him in the evenings. She reads beautifully.” “Well, but in truth, Marie, I wonder if father's character isn't sometimes hard on you?” Prince Andrei asked suddenly. Princess Marya was first surprised, then frightened by this question. “On me? ... On me?! Hard on me?!” she said. “He's always been tough, but now I think he's becoming difficult,” said Prince Andrei, probably speaking so lightly of their father on purpose, to puzzle or test his sister. “You're good in every way, André, but you have a sort of mental pride,” the princess said, following her own train of thought more than the course of the conversation, “and that is a great sin. Is it possible to judge one's father? And even if it were possible, what other feeling than vénération can a man like mon père evoke? And I am so content and happy with him. I only wish everyone could be as happy as I am.” Her brother shook his head mistrustfully. “The one thing that's hard for me—to tell you the truth, André—is father's way of thinking in the religious respect. I don't understand how a man with such an enormous intellect cannot see what is clear as day and can be so deluded. That constitutes my one unhappiness. But here, too, I've seen a shade of improvement recently. His mockery recently hasn't been so biting, and there's a monk whom he received and with whom he spoke for a long time.” “Well, my friend, I'm afraid you and this monk are wasting your powder,” Prince Andrei said mockingly but affectionately. “Ah, mon ami. I only pray to God and hope He will hear me. André,” she said timidly, after a moment's silence, “I have a big request to make of you.” “What is it, my friend?” “No, promise me you won't refuse. It won't be any trouble for you, and there won't be anything in it that's unworthy of you. Only you'll comfort me. Promise, Andryusha,” she said, putting her hand into her reticule and taking hold of something in it, but not showing it yet, as if what she was holding constituted the object of her request, and before she got his promise to fulfill her request, she could not take this something out of her reticule. * †

To understand all is to forgive all. From the street.

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She looked at her brother with a timid, pleading gaze. “Even if it was a great deal of trouble for me ...” Prince Andrei said, as if guessing what it was about. “You can think what you like! I know you're the same as mon père. Think what you like, but do it for me. Do it, please! Father's father, our grandfather, wore it through all the wars ...” She still would not take what she was holding out of the reticule. “So promise me? ...” “Of course, what is it?” “André, I'm going to bless you with an icon, and you promise me never to take it off... Do you promise?” “Of course, if it doesn't weigh a hundred pounds and pull my neck down... To give you pleasure ...” said Prince Andrei, but that same second, noticing the distressed look that came to his sister's face at this joke, he instantly repented. “I'm very glad, truly, very glad, my friend,” he added. “Against your will He will save you and have mercy on you and turn you to Him, because in Him alone there is truth and peace,” she said in a voice trembling from emotion, with a solemn gesture holding up in both hands before her brother an old oval icon of the Savior with a blackened face, in a silver setting, on a finely wrought silver chain. She crossed herself, kissed the icon, and gave it to Andrei. “Please, André, for me...” From her big eyes shone rays of a kindly and timid light. These eyes lit up her whole thin, sickly face and made it beautiful. Her brother wanted to take the icon, but she stopped him. Andrei understood, made the sign of the cross, and kissed the icon. His face was at the same time tender (he was touched) and mocking. “Merci, mon ami.” She kissed him on the forehead and sat down again on the sofa. They were silent. “So as I was saying to you, André, be kind and magnanimous, as you've always been. Don't judge Lise too severely,” she began. “She's so dear, so kind, and her position is very hard now.” “I don't believe I've said anything to you, Masha, about reproaching my wife for anything or being displeased with her. Why are you saying all this to me?” Princess Marya broke out in red blotches and said nothing, as if she felt guilty. “I haven't said anything to you, but it has already been said to you. And that makes me sad.” The red blotches stood out still more on Princess Marya's forehead, neck, and cheeks. She wanted to say something, but could not bring it out. Her brother had guessed right: the little princess had wept after dinner, had said she had a foreboding of a bad delivery, was afraid of it, and had complained about her life, her father-in-law, and her husband. After her tears, she had fallen asleep. Prince Andrei felt sorry for his sister. “Know one thing, Masha, I cannot, have not, and never will reproach my wife for anything, nor can I reproach myself for anything in relation to her; and that will always be so, whatever circumstances I find myself in. But if you want to know the truth... if you want to know whether I'm happy? No. Is she happy? No. Why is that? I don't know...” As he was saying this, he got up, went over to his sister, and, bending down, kissed her on the forehead. His fine eyes shone with an intelligent and kindly, unhabitual light, but he was looking not at his sister but into the darkness of the open doorway, over her head. “Let's go to her, I must say good-bye! Or you go alone, wake her up, and I'll come presently. Petrushka!” he called to his valet. “Come here, take these things out. This goes under the seat, this to the right-hand side.” Princess Marya got up and went to the door. She paused. 88

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“André, si vous avez la foi, vous vous seriez adressé à Dieu, pour qu'il vous donne l'amour que * vous ne sentez pas, et votre prière aurait été exaucée.” “Yes—there's always that!” said Prince Andrei. “Go, Masha, I'll come presently.” On the way to his sister's room, in the gallery that connected one house to the other, Prince Andrei met the sweetly smiling Mlle Bourienne, who three times that day had already run into him with her rapturous and naive smile in secluded passages. † “Ah! je vous croyais chez vous,” she said, blushing and lowering her eyes for some reason. Prince Andrei looked at her sternly. A spiteful look suddenly came to Prince Andrei's face. He said nothing to her, but, avoiding her eyes, looked at her forehead and hair with such scorn that the Frenchwoman blushed and left without saying anything. When he approached his sister's room, the princess was already awake, and her merry little voice could be heard through the open door hurriedly sending out one word after another. She was talking as if, after a long abstinence, she wanted to make up for lost time. “Non, mais figurez-vous, la vieille comtesse Zouboff avec des fausses boucles et la bouche pleine de fausses dents, comme si elle voulait défier les années...‡ Ha, ha, ha, Marie!” Five times already, with other people, Prince Andrei had heard exactly the same phrase about the countess Zubov and the same laughter from his wife. He quietly went into the room. The princess, round, rosy, with her work in her hands, was sitting in an armchair and talking non-stop, telling over her Petersburg memories and even phrases. Prince Andrei went to her, stroked her head, and asked whether she had rested from the journey. She made a reply and went on with the same talk. The coach and six was standing at the porch. Outside it was a dark autumn night. The coachman could not see the shafts of the carriage. On the porch people with lanterns bustled about. Lights shone through the big windows of the immense house. The domestic servants crowded in the front hall, wishing to say good-bye to the young prince; in the reception room stood the whole household: Mikhail Ivanovich, Mlle Bounenne, Princess Marya, and the little princess. Prince Andrei had been summoned to his father's study, where the old prince wanted to say good-bye to him man to man. Everyone was waiting for them to emerge. When Prince Andrei went into the study, the old prince, in his old man's spectacles and his white smock, in which he received no one except his son, was sitting at the table and writing. He looked up. “You're leaving?” And he started writing again. “I've come to say good-bye.” “Kiss me here,” he pointed to his cheek. “Thank you, thank you!” “What are you thanking me for?” “For not overstaying and clinging to a woman's skirt. Service before all. Thank you, thank you!” And he went on writing, so that spatters flew from his scratching pen. “If you want to say something, speak. I can do the two things at once,” he added. “About my wife ... I'm so ashamed to be leaving her on your hands...” “What's this drivel? Say what you want.” “When it's time for my wife to give birth, send to Moscow for an accoucheur§ ... So that he'll be here.” * Andrei, if you had faith, you would have turned to God, asking that He give you the love you do not feel, and your prayer would have been answered. † Ah! I thought you were in your room. ‡ No, but picture it, the old countess Zubov with false curls and a mouth full of false teeth, as if she wanted to defy the years ... § Male midwife.

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The old prince stopped and, as if unable to understand, stared with stern eyes at his son. “I know no one can help if nature doesn't help,” Prince Andrei said, visibly embarrassed. “I agree that only one case in a million ends badly, but it's her and my fantasy. People have said things to her, she's had dreams, and she's afraid.” “Hm ... hm ...” the old prince said to himself, still writing. “I'll do it.” He signed with a flourish, suddenly turned quickly to his son, and laughed. “A bad business, eh?” “What is, papa?” “A wife!” the old prince said curtly and significantly. “I don't understand,” said Prince Andrei. “Nothing to be done, my friend,” said the prince, “they're all like that, no use unmarrying. Don't be afraid; I won't tell anybody; but you know it yourself.” He seized his hand in his bony little fist, shook it, looked straight into his son's face with his quick eyes that seemed to see through a person, and again laughed his cold laugh. The son sighed, admitting by this sigh that his father had understood him. The old man, continuing to fold and seal letters with his habitual dexterity, kept snatching up and throwing down wax, seal, and paper. “What can you do? She's beautiful! I'll do everything. You can rest easy,” he said brusquely while sealing a letter. Andrei said nothing: he was both pleased and displeased that his father understood him. The old man got up and handed the letter to his son. “Listen,” he said, “don't worry about your wife: whatever can be done, will be done. Now listen: give this letter to Mikhail Ilarionovich. I write that he should use you in good posts and not keep you long as an adjutant: nasty duty! Tell him I remember him and love him. And write and tell me how he receives you. If he's all right, serve him. Nikolai Andreevich Bolkonsky's son won't serve anyone on charity. Well, now come here.” He spoke so quickly that half the words remained unfinished, but his son was used to understanding him. He led his son to the desk, opened the lid, pulled out a drawer, and took from it a notebook filled with his bold, tall, compact handwriting. “I'm sure to die before you. Know that these are my journals, to be given to the sovereign after my death. Now here is a Lombard note53 and a letter: it's a prize for whoever writes the history of Suvorov's campaigns. To be sent to the Academy. Here are my jottings, read them for yourself when I'm gone, you'll find useful things.” Andrei did not tell his father that he would probably live for a long time yet. He understood that there was no need to say it. “I'll do it all, father,” he said. “Well, and now good-bye!” He gave his son his hand to kiss and embraced him. “Remember one thing, Prince Andrei: if you're killed, I, your old father, will be pained ...” He unexpectedly fell silent and suddenly went on in a shrill voice: “But if I learn that you have not behaved like Nikolai Bolkonsky's son, I will be ashamed!” he shrieked. “That you might not have told me, father,” the son said, smiling. The old man fell silent. “I also wanted to ask you,” Prince Andrei continued, “if I'm killed, and if I should have a son, don't let him leave you, as I told you yesterday; he should grow up here with you ... please.” “Not give him to your wife?” the old man said and laughed. They stood silently facing each other. The old man's quick eyes were aimed straight into his son's eyes. Something twitched in the lower part of the old prince's face. “We've said our good-byes ... off with you!” he said suddenly. “Off with you!” he shouted in a loud and angry voice, opening the door of the study. 90

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“What is it? What's wrong?” asked both princesses, seeing Prince Andrei and the momentarily emerging figure of the old man in a white smock, wigless, and in an old man's spectacles, shouting in an angry voice. Prince Andrei sighed and said nothing. “Well,” he said, turning to his wife, and this “well” sounded like cold mockery, as if he had said: “Now perform your tricks.” * “André, déja?” The little princess said, turning pale and looking at her husband in fear. He embraced her. She cried out and fell unconscious on his shoulder. He cautiously withdrew the shoulder she was lying on, looked into her face, and carefully seated her in an armchair. “Adieu, Marie,” he said softly to his sister, they kissed each other's hands, and with quick steps he walked out of the room. The princess lay in the armchair, and Mlle Bourienne rubbed her temples. Princess Marya, supporting her sister-in-law, went on looking with her beautiful, tear-filled eyes at the door through which Prince Andrei had gone and making signs of the cross at him. From the study, like gunshots, came the oft-repeated angry sounds of the old man blowing his nose. As soon as Prince Andrei left, the door to the study quickly opened, and the old man's stern figure appeared in its white smock. “Gone? Well, that's good!” he said, gave the unconscious little princess an angry look, shook his head reproachfully, and slammed the door.

*

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Part Two I In October 1805 Russian troops were occupying villages and towns in the archduchy of Austria, and more new regiments kept arriving from Russia to be stationed by the fortress of Braunau, burdening the local inhabitants with their billeting. In Braunau the commander in chief, Kutuzov, had his headquarters. On the eleventh of October, 1805, one of the infantry regiments just arrived in Braunau had halted half a mile from the town, waiting to be reviewed by the commander in chief. Despite the non-Russian locality and surroundings— orchards, stone walls, tile roofs, mountains visible in the distance—and the non-Russian folk gazing with curiosity at the soldiers, the regiment looked exactly the same as any Russian regiment waiting for review somewhere in central Russia. In the evening of the latest march an order had been received that the commander in chief would review the regiment on the march. Though the wording of the order seemed unclear to the regimental commander and the question arose of how to take the wording of the order—in marching uniform or not?—in the council of battalion commanders it was decided to present the regiment for review in parade uniform, on the grounds that it is always better to bow too much than not to bow enough. And so the soldiers, after a twenty-mile march, without a wink of sleep, spent the whole night mending and cleaning; the adjutants and company commanders calculated and counted off; and by morning the regiment, instead of the straggling, disorderly crowd it had been the day before, during the latest march, was a well-ordered mass of two thousand men, each of whom knew his place, his duty, each of whose buttons and straps was in its place and sparkling clean. Not only were the externals in good order, but if it should please the commander in chief to look under the uniform, he would see on each man the same clean shirt, and in each pack he would find the prescribed number of things, “the whole kit and caboodle,” as soldiers say. There was only one circumstance with regard to which no one could be at ease. This was footgear. More than half the men had their boots falling to pieces. But this shortcoming was not the regimental commander's fault, since, despite his repeated requests, the Austrian department had not released a supply, and the regiment had walked seven hundred miles. The regimental commander was an elderly, sanguine general with grizzled eyebrows and side-whiskers, stocky and broader from chest to back than from shoulder to shoulder. He was wearing a brand-new uniform with creases from being packed away, and thick gold epaulettes which seemed not to weigh down but to lift up his massive shoulders. The regimental commander had the look of a man happily performing one of the most solemn duties in life. He strolled about before the front line, bouncing at each step as he strolled, and arching his back slightly. It was clear that the regimental commander admired his regiment, was happy with it, and that all his inner forces were taken up only with the regiment; but, in spite of that, his bouncing gait seemed to say that, besides military interests, no small part of his soul was taken up by the interests of social life and the female sex. “Well, Mikhailo Mitrich, old boy,” he addressed one of the battalion commanders (the battalion commander, smiling, moved forward; it was clear that both men were happy), “we were hard put to it last night. However, it seems the regiment's not such a bad one ... Eh?” The battalion commander understood the merry irony and laughed. 1 “Wouldn't even be driven off the Tsaritsyn Field.” “What?”

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Just then two horsemen appeared on the road from town along which signalmen had been posted. They were an adjutant with a Cossack riding behind him. The adjutant had been sent from headquarters to confirm to the regimental commander what had been said unclearly in the previous day's order, namely, that the commander in chief wished to see the regiment in exactly the same condition it had been in on the march—in greatcoats, in dustcovers, and without any preparations. The day before, a member of the Hofkriegsrath from Vienna had come to Kutuzov with proposals and demands that he go as quickly as possible to join with the army of the archduke Ferdinand and Mack, and Kutuzov, who did not consider that juncture advantageous, intended, among other arguments in favor of his opinion, to show the Austrian general the sorry condition in which his troops arrived from Russia. It was with that purpose that he wanted to come and meet the regiment, so that the worse the condition of the regiment was, the more pleasing it would be to the commander in chief. Though the adjutant did not know these details, he conveyed to the regimental commander the absolute demand of the commander in chief that his people be in greatcoats and dustcovers, and that in the contrary case the commander in chief would be displeased. Having listened to these words, the regimental commander hung his head, silently heaved his shoulders, and spread his arms in a sanguine gesture. “Now we've done it!” he said. “See, I told you, Mikhailo Mitrich, if it's on the march, then it's greatcoats,” he turned reproachfully to the battalion commander. “Ah, my God!” he added and resolutely stepped forward. “Company commanders!” he cried in a voice accustomed to command. “Sergeant majors! ... How soon will he come?” he turned to the adjutant with an expression of deferential politeness which evidently related to the person of whom he was speaking. “In an hour, I think.” “Do we have time to change?” “I don't know, General...” The regimental commander approached the ranks himself and gave orders to change back into overcoats. The company commanders ran to their companies, the sergeant majors began bustling about (the overcoats were not in good order), and that same instant the previously orderly, silent rectangles heaved, stretched, and began humming with talk. Soldiers ran back and forth on all sides, tossed their packs off one shoulder and pulled them over their heads, took their overcoats out, and raised their arms high, putting them into the sleeves. Half an hour later everything was back in its former order, only the rectangles had become gray instead of black. The regimental commander again stepped before the regiment with his bouncing gait and looked it over from a distance. “What's this now? what's this?” he shouted, stopping. “Commander of the third company! ...” “Commander of the third company to the general! commander to the general, third company to the commander! ...” voices were heard in the ranks, and an adjutant ran to look for the belated officer. When the sounds of the zealous voices, distorting the message and now shouting “the general to the third company,” reached their destination, the summoned officer emerged from the back of the ranks and, though already an elderly man and not accustomed to running, cantered, clumsily tripping over his toes, towards the general. The captain's face expressed the anxiety of a schoolboy who is asked to recite a lesson he had not learned. Blotches appeared on his red (evidently from intemperance) face, and his mouth would not stay put. The regimental commander looked the captain up and down as he approached, puffing, slackening his pace the nearer he came. 93

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“Soon you'll have your people dressed in sarafans! What is that?” shouted the regimental commander, thrusting his lower jaw out and pointing to a soldier in the ranks of the third company who was wearing a greatcoat of blue factory broadcloth, different from the other greatcoats. “Where have you been? We're expecting the commander in chief, and you leave your post? Eh? ... I'll teach you to dress your people in gaudy colors for a review! ... Eh! ...” The company commander, not taking his eyes off his superior officer, pressed his two fingers more and more firmly to his visor, as if he now saw salvation only in this pressing. “Well, why are you silent? Who have you got there dressed up like a Hungarian?” the regimental commander joked sternly. “Your Excellency...” “Well, 'Your Excellency' what? Your Excellency! Your Excellency! But Your Excellency what—nobody knows.” “Your Excellency, it's Dolokhov, who was reduced ...” the captain said softly. “What, he's been reduced to a field marshal, is it, or to a common soldier? If it's a common soldier, then he should be dressed in the proper uniform like everybody else.” “Your Excellency, you yourself gave him permission for the march.” “Permission? Permission? You young people are always that way,” said the regimental commander, cooling down a little. “Permission? Say something to you, and you...” The regimental commander paused. “Say something to you, and you ... What?” he said, getting irritated again. “Kindly dress your men properly...” And, having glanced at the adjutant, the regimental commander walked with his bouncing gait towards the regiment. It was clear that he liked his own irritation and that he wanted to walk the length of the regiment and find more pretexts for his wrath. Having snapped at one officer for an unpolished insignia, and another for an unevenness in one rank, he came to the third company. “Ho-o-ow's that you're standing? Where's your leg? Where's your leg?” the regimental commander shouted with an expression of suffering in his voice, still five men away from Dolokhov, who was wearing a bluish greatcoat. Dolokhov slowly straightened his bent leg and looked the general directly in the face with his light and insolent gaze. “Why a blue greatcoat? Away! ... Sergeant major! Have him changed ... the dir...” He did not have time to finish. “General, I am duty-bound to obey orders, but I am not duty-bound to put up with...” Dolokhov said hastily. “No talking at attention! ... No talking, no talking! ...” “Not duty-bound to put up with insults,” Dolokhov finished loudly and resoundingly. The eyes of the general and the soldier met. The general said nothing, angrily pulling down on his tight sash. “Kindly change, I ask you,” he said, walking away.

II “He's coming!” the signalman shouted just then. The regimental commander, turning red, ran to his horse, took the stirrup in his trembling hands, threw his body over, straightened up, drew his sword, and, with a happy, resolute face, opening his mouth askew, prepared to shout. The regiment fluttered up briefly, like a bird preening itself, and grew still. “Te-n-n-n-HUT!” shouted the regimental commander in a soul-shattering voice, overjoyed for himself, strict in regard to the regiment, and welcoming in regard to his approaching superior.

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Down the wide, tree-lined, unpaved main road, rumbling slightly on its springs, a high, light-blue Viennese coach-and-six came driving at a quick canter. Behind the coach galloped the suite and a convoy of Croats. Beside Kutu-zov sat an Austrian general in a white uniform, strange amidst the black Russian ones. The coach drew up by the regiment, Kutuzov and the Austrian general conversed quietly about something, and Kutuzov smiled slightly, at the same time stepping down heavily from the footboard, as if these two thousand men staring at him and at the regimental commander with bated breath did not exist. A shout of command rang out, and again the regiment quivered, jingling, as it presented arms. In the dead silence, the weak voice of the commander in chief was heard. The regiment barked: “Long live Your Excellen-cellen-cellency!” And again everything grew still. At first Kutuzov stood in place while the regiment moved; then Kutuzov, with the white general beside him, on foot, followed by his suite, started walking along the ranks. By the way the regimental commander saluted the commander in chief, fastening his eyes on him, stretching and drawing himself up; by the way he walked along the ranks behind the generals, his body leaning forward, barely controlling his bouncing movement; by the way he jumped at each word and movement of the commander in chief—one could see that he fulfilled his duties as a subordinate with still greater pleasure than his duties as a superior. Owing to the regimental commander's strictness and zeal, the regiment was in excellent condition compared with others that had come to Braunau at the same time. The stragglers and sick amounted to only two hundred and seventeen men. And everything was in order, except the footgear. Kutuzov walked along the ranks, stopping every once in a while and saying a few affectionate words to the officers he knew from the Turkish war, and sometimes to soldiers as well. Looking at the footgear, he several times shook his head sadly and pointed it out to the Austrian general with such an expression as though, while not blaming anyone for it, he could not help seeing how bad it was. The regimental commander ran ahead each time, afraid to miss a word of what the commander in chief said about the regiment. Behind Kutu-zov, at a distance from which every faintly uttered word could be heard, walked some twenty men of his suite. The gentlemen of the suite talked among themselves and occasionally laughed. Closest behind the commander in chief walked a handsome officer. This was Prince Bolkonsky. Beside him walked his comrade Nesvitsky, a tall staff officer, extremely fat, with a kind, smiling, handsome face and moist eyes. Nesvitsky could barely hold back his laughter, provoked by a swarthy hussar officer who was walking near him. The hussar officer, without smiling, without changing the expression of his fixed gaze, was staring with a serious face at the regimental commander's back and mimicking his every movement. Each time the regimental commander bounced and leaned forward, the hussar officer bounced and leaned forward in the same, in exactly the same way. Nesvitsky laughed and nudged the others, urging them to look at the funnyman. Kutuzov walked slowly and indolently past the thousands of eyes that were popping from their sockets, following the superior. Coming up to the third company, he suddenly stopped. His suite, not foreseeing this stop, inadvertently ran into him. “Ah, Timokhin!” said the commander in chief, recognizing the red-nosed captain who had suffered on account of the blue greatcoat. It would seem impossible to draw oneself up more than Timokhin had drawn himself up when the regimental commander reprimanded him. But the moment the commander in chief addressed him, the captain drew himself up so much that it seemed, if the commander in chief were to look at him a little longer, the captain would be unable to stand it; and therefore Kutuzov, evidently understanding his situation, and wishing the

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captain, on the contrary, nothing but good, hastened to turn away. A barely noticeable smile passed over Kutuzov's puffy face, disfigured by a wound. 2 “Another Izmail comrade,” he said. “A brave officer! Are you pleased with him?” Kutuzov asked the regimental commander. And the regimental commander, reflected as in a mirror, invisibly to himself, in the hussar officer, bounced, came forward, and replied: “Very pleased, Your Excellency.” “We all have our weaknesses,” said Kutuzov, smiling and moving away from him. “His was a devotion to Bacchus.” The regimental commander was afraid that he might be blamed for that and made no reply. Just then the officer noticed the face of the captain with the red nose and drawn-in stomach and mimicked his face and pose so perfectly that Nesvitsky could not keep from laughing. Kutuzov turned around. It was clear that the officer could control his face at will: the moment Kutuzov turned around, the officer managed to make a scowl and then assume a most serious, deferential, and innocent expression. The third company was the last, and Kutuzov fell to thinking, evidently recalling something. Prince Andrei stepped from among the suite and said quietly in French: “You asked me to remind you about the demoted officer Dolokhov in this regiment.” “Where's this Dolokhov?” asked Kutuzov. Dolokhov, now changed into a gray soldier's greatcoat, did not wait to be called out. The trim figure of the fair-haired soldier with clear blue eyes stepped from the line. He went up to the commander in chief and presented arms. “A grievance?” Kutuzov asked, frowning slightly. “This is Dolokhov,” said Prince Andrei. “Ah!” said Kutuzov. “I hope this lesson will set you straight. Serve well. Our sovereign is merciful. And I won't forget you, if you prove worthy.” The blue, clear eyes looked at the commander in chief just as boldly as at the regimental commander, as if tearing by their expression the curtain of convention that had so widely separated the commander in chief from the soldier. “I ask only one thing, Your Excellency,” he said in his firm, sonorous, unhurried voice. “I ask to be given a chance to wipe out my guilt and prove my devotion to the sovereign and to Russia.” Kutuzov turned away. The same smile of the eyes flashed over his face as when he had turned away from Captain Timokhin. He turned away and winced, as if wishing to express thereby that all that Dolokhov had said to him and all that he could say had long, long been known to him, that it all bored him, and that it was all by no means what was needed. He turned away and made for the coach. The regiment broke up into companies and dispersed to their assigned quarters not far from Braunau, where they hoped to find footgear, mend their clothes, and get some rest after their hard marching. “Don't hold it against me, Prokhor Ignatych!” said the regimental commander, circling around the third company, which was moving to its quarters, and riding up to Captain Timokhin, who was walking at the head of it. The face of the regimental commander, after the happily passed-off review, expressed irrepressible joy. “The tsar's service ... impossible... sometimes one gets snappish on parade ... I'm the first to apologize, you know me ... He was very grateful!” And he held out his hand to the company commander. “Mercy, General, I wouldn't be so bold!” replied the captain, his nose reddening, smiling and revealing with his smile the absence of his two front teeth, knocked out by a rifle butt at Izmail.

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“And tell Mr. Dolokhov that I won't forget him, he should rest easy. And tell me, please, I keep forgetting to ask, how is he, how does he behave? And all...” “He's very correct in his service, Your Excellency ... but his charickter ...” said Timokhin. “What, what about his character?” asked the regimental commander. “It comes over him, Your Excellency, some days,” said the captain. “He's clever, and learned, and kind. And then he's a beast. In Poland he all but killed a Jew, if you want to know...” “Well, yes, yes,” said the regimental commander, “still one must pity the young fellow in his misfortune. Big connections... So you just...” “Right, Your Excellency,” said Timokhin, his smile letting it be felt that he understood his superior's wishes. “Well, yes, yes.” The regimental commander sought out Dolokhov in the ranks and reined in his horse. “With the first action—epaulettes,” he said to him. Dolokhov looked, said nothing, and did not change the expression of his mockingly smiling mouth. “Well, that's fine,” the regimental commander went on. “The men get a glass of vodka each from me,” he added loudly, so that the soldiers could hear. “I'm grateful to you all! Thank God!” And, going ahead of the company, he rode to the next one. “Why, he's really a good man, you can serve with him,” Timokhin said to a subaltern officer who was walking beside him. “All heart, in a word! ...” the subaltern officer said, laughing (the regimental commander's nickname was “the King of Hearts”). The happy state of mind of the officers after the review passed itself on to the soldiers. The company walked along merrily. On all sides soldiers' voices exchanged remarks. “How come they said Kutuzov was blind in one eye?” “Hell he's not! Stone blind...” “Naw ... brother, he's sharper-eyed than you—the boots and the foot cloths, he took it all in...” “The way he looked my feet over, dear brother mine... Well! I think...” “And that other one, the Austriak with him, it's like he's all smeared with chalk. White as flour! I s'pose they clean him like ammunition!” “What about it, Fedeshou! ... Did he say when the fighting would begin? You were standing closer. They all said Boonapart himself was stationed in Brunovo.” “Boonapart stationed there! Lies, you fool! What do you know! It's the Prussky's up in arms now. The Austriak's pacifying him. Soon as they make peace, the war with Boonapart will open up. And he says Boonapart's in Brunovo! It's plain you're a fool, no point listening to you.” “Devilish billeters! The fifth company's already tucked into the village, see, they'll have their kasha boiled, and we've still got no place.” “Give us a biscuit, you devil.” “And did you give me tobacco yesterday? So there, brother. Well, here, take it, God help you.” “They could at least call a halt, or else we'll slog on for three more miles unfed.” “It was a pretty thing the way the Germans sent us carriages. 3 You go riding along, you know: it's grand!” “But here, brother, the folk have gone clean wild. There it was all some kind of Poles, all under the Russian crown, but now, brother, it's gone solid German.” 97

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“Singers, up front!” the captain's shout was heard. And some twenty men from various ranks ran to the front of the company. The drummer and lead singer turned to face the singers, waved his arm, and struck up a drawn-out soldiers' song that began: “It was dawn, the sun was rising ...” and ended with the words: “And that, brothers, will our glory be with old man Kamensky...” The song had been composed in Turkey, and was now being sung in Austria, only with one change, that instead of “old man Kamensky,” they put in “old man Kutuzov.” Having snapped out these last words in soldierly fashion and waved his arms as if throwing something on the ground, the drummer, a lean and handsome soldier of about forty, sternly looked the soldier-singers over and narrowed his eyes. Then, making sure that all eyes were aimed at him, he raised his arms as if carefully lifting some invisible precious object over his head, held it there for a few seconds, and all at once desperately threw it down: Ah, my porch, my new porch! “Ah, my new porch ...” twenty voices picked up, and a spoon player, despite the weight of his ammunition, nimbly leaped out in front and walked backwards facing the company, moving his shoulders and threatening someone with his spoons. The soldiers swung their arms in time with the song, striding freely along and involuntarily keeping in step. From behind the company came the sound of wheels, the creaking springs, and the tramping of horses. Kutuzov and his suite were returning to town. The commander in chief gave a sign for the men to go on marching freely, and his face and all the faces of his suite expressed pleasure at the sounds of the song, at the sight of the dancing soldier and the merrily and briskly marching soldiers. In the second row of the right flank, where the coach overtook the company, the eye was involuntarily struck by the blue-eyed soldier Dolokhov, who marched especially briskly and gracefully in time with the song and looked at the faces of people passing by with such an expression as if he pitied all those who were not then marching with the company. The hussar cornet from Kutuzov's suite, who had been mimicking the regimental commander, dropped behind the coach and rode over to Dolokhov. The hussar cornet Zherkov had belonged for some time to the rowdy comas a soldier, but had found it unnecessary to recognize him. Now, after Kutuzov had talked with the demoted man, he addressed him with the joy of an old friend. “Friend of my heart, how are you?” he said to the sounds of the song, adjusting the pace of his horse to the pace of the company. “How am I?” Dolokhov replied coldly. “As you see.” The brisk song gave a special meaning to the tone of casual merriment with which Zherkov spoke, and to the intentional coldness of Dolokhov's replies. “Well, how are you getting along with your superiors?” asked Zherkov. “Well enough, they're good people. How did you manage to turn up on the staff?” “By appointment. I'm on duty.” They fell silent. “She let the falcon go, from her right sleeve let it go,” said the song, involuntarily arousing a cheerful, merry feeling. Their conversation would probably have been different, if they had not been talking to the sounds of the song. “So, is it true the Austrians have been beaten?” asked Dolokhov. “Devil knows, they say so.” “I'm glad,” Dolokhov replied briefly and clearly, as the song required. “So, then, come over some evening, we'll set up a game of faro,” said Zherkov. “What, have you got a lot of money?” 98

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“Come over.” “Impossible. I've sworn off it. No drinking and no gambling, until I've been promoted.” “So, then, till the first action ...” “We'll see ...” They again fell silent. “Just come, if you need something, the staff can always be helpful...” said Zherkov. Dolokhov grinned. “You'd best not worry. If I need anything, I won't ask, I'll take it myself.” “So, then, I just...” “Well, and I, too, just...” “Good-bye.” “Be well...” ... And high and far he flew To his own native land ... Zherkov touched his horse with his spurs; it shifted its footing three times excitedly, not knowing which leg to start with, worked it out, and galloped off, going ahead of the company and catching up with the coach, also in time with the song.

III On returning from the review, Kutuzov, accompanied by the Austrian general, went to his office and, calling his adjutant, told him to bring him certain papers pertaining to the condition of the arriving troops and letters from Archduke Ferdinand, who was heading the army of the vanguard. Prince Andrei Bolkon-sky came into the commander in chief's office with the requested papers. Kutuzov and the Austrian member of the Hofkriegsrath were sitting over a map spread out on the table. “Ah ...” said Kutuzov, glancing at Bolkonsky, as if with this word he was inviting the adjutant to wait, and went on with the conversation begun in French. “I'm saying only one thing, General,” Kutuzov said with a pleasant graciousness of expression and intonation, which made one listen well to every unhurriedly uttered word. It could be seen that Kutuzov, too, listened to himself with pleasure. “I'm only saying one thing, General, that if the matter depended on my own personal wish, the will of his majesty the emperor Franz would have been fulfilled long ago. I would long ago have joined the archduke. And believe me on my honor, for me personally to hand over the supreme command of the army to a more knowledgeable and skillful general, such as Austria abounds in, and to lay down all this heavy responsibility, for me personally it would be a delight. But circumstances are sometimes stronger than we are, General.” And Kutuzov smiled with such an expression as if he was saying: “You have every right not to believe me, and I'm even quite indifferent to whether you believe me or not, but you have no cause for telling me so. And that's the whole point.” The Austrian general had a displeased look, but he had no choice but to answer Kutuzov in the same tone. “On the contrary,” he said in a peevish and angry tone, quite contradictory to the flattering meaning of the words he spoke, “on the contrary, Your Excellency's participation in the common cause is highly appreciated by his majesty; but we think that the present delay is depriving the valiant Russian army and its commanders of the laurels they are accustomed to reap in battle,” he finished an obviously prepared phrase. Kutuzov bowed with an unchanging smile. “But I am convinced and, basing myself on the last letter with which his highness Archduke Ferdinand has honored me, I suppose that the Austrian troops under the command of so skillful a leader as General Mack, have now gained a decisive victory and are no longer in need of our help,” said Kutuzov. The general frowned. Though there was no positive news about the defeat of the Austrians, there were far too many circumstances confirming the general unfavorable rumors; and therefore Kutuzov's supposition about an Austrian victory looked very much like mockery. But Kutuzov was smiling meekly, with the same expression which said that

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he had the right to suppose so. In fact, the last letter he had had from Mack's army had informed him of the victory and of the most advantageous strategic position of the army. “Give me that letter,” said Kutuzov, turning to Prince Andrei. “Take a look, if you please,” and Kutuzov, with a mocking smile at the corners of his lips, read in German for the Austrian general the following passage from the letter of Archduke Ferdinand:

Wir haben vollkommen zusammengehaltene Kräfte, nahe an 70,000 Mann, um den Feind, wenn er den Lech passierte, angreifen und schlagen zu können. Wir können, da wir Meister von Ulm sind, den Vorteil, auch von beiden Ufern der Donau Meister zu bleiben, nicht verlieren; mithin auch jeden Augenblick, wenn der Feind den Lech nicht passierte, die Donau übersetzen, uns auf seine Kommunications-Linie werfen, die Donau unterhalb repassieren und dem Feinde, wenn er sich gegen unsere treue Allierte mit ganzer Macht wenden wollte, seine Absicht alsbald vereiteln. Wir werden auf solche Weise dem Zeitpunkt, wo die Kaiserlich-Russische Armée ausgerüstet sein wird, mutig entgegenharren, und sodann leicht gemein-shaftlich die Möglichkeit finden, dem Feinde das Schicksal zuzubereiten, so er verdient.*4 Kutuzov sighed deeply as he finished this paragraph and looked at the member of the Hofkriegsrath attentively and benignly. “But Your Excellency knows the wise rule which prescribes that one should assume the worst,” said the Austrian general, evidently wishing to put an end to the joking and get down to business. He glanced with displeasure at the adjutant. “Excuse me, General,” Kutuzov interrupted him and also turned to Prince Andrei. “I tell you what, my gentle, you get all the reports our scouts have received from Kozlovsky. Here are two letters from Count Nostitz, here is the letter from his highness Archduke Ferdinand, here are some others,” he said, handing him several papers. “And from all this compose a clear memorandum, in French, presenting all the news we've had about the actions of the Austrian army. Well, do that, and give it to his excellency. Prince Andrei inclined his head to indicate that he had understood from the first word not only what had been said, but also what Kutuzov had wished to tell him. He gathered up the papers and, making a general bow, stepping softly over the carpet, went out to the waiting room. Though not much time had passed since Prince Andrei left Russia, he had changed much during that time. In the expression of his face, in his movements, in his gait there was almost no trace of the former affectation, fatigue, and laziness; he had the look of a man who had no time to think of the impression he made on others and who was occupied with pleasant and interesting things. His face expressed more satisfaction with himself and those around him; his smile and glance were more cheerful and attractive. Kutuzov, whom he had overtaken still in Poland, had received him very affectionately, promised not to forget him, distinguished him from the other adjutants, taken him along to Vienna, charged him with more serious missions. From Vienna Kutuzov wrote to his old comrade, Prince Andrei's father. “Your son,” he wrote, “promises to become an outstanding officer, by his knowledge, firmness, and industry. I consider myself fortunate to have such a subordinate at hand.” * We have a fully massed force of about 70,000 men, and can attack and crush the enemy if he crosses the Lech. Since we are already the masters of Ulm, we cannot lose the advantage of being masters of both banks of the Danube; so that, if the enemy does not cross the Lech, we can at any moment cross the Danube, fall upon his lines of communication, cross back lower down die Danube, and prevent the enemy, if he decides to turn all his forces against our faithful allies, from fulfilling his intention. Thus we shall cheerfully await the time when the Russian imperial army is in full readiness, and then together we shall easily find the means of preparing for the enemy the fate he deserves.

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On Kutuzov's staff, among his comrades and colleagues, and in the army in general, as in Petersburg society, Prince Andrei had two completely opposite reputations. Some, the smaller part, considered Prince Andrei to be something distinct from themselves and from all others, expected great success from him, listened to him, admired him, and imitated him; and with these people Prince Andrei was simple and pleasant. Others, the majority, did not like Prince Andrei, considering him a pompous, cold, and unpleasant man. But with these people Prince Andrei was able to behave in such a way as to be respected and even feared. Coming out to the waiting room from Kutuzov's office, Prince Andrei, holding the papers, went up to his colleague on duty, the adjutant Kozlovsky, who was sitting by the window with a book. “Well, what is it, Prince?” asked Kozlovsky. “I've been ordered to compose a memorandum explaining why we are not moving forward.” “And why is it?” Prince Andrei shrugged his shoulders. “Any news from Mack?” asked Kozlovsky. “No.” “If it were true that he's been defeated, the news would have come.” “Probably,” said Prince Andrei and headed for the front door; but just then the door slammed and a tall Austrian general, evidently just arrived, in a frock coat, his head bound in a black bandage and the order of Maria Theresa on his neck, quickly entered the waiting room. Prince Andrei stopped. “General in Chief Kutuzov?” the just-arrived general spoke quickly, with a strong German accent, glancing to both sides and going to the door of the office without pausing. “The general in chief is busy,” said Kozlovsky, hastily going up to the unknown general and barring his way to the door. “How shall I announce you?” The unknown general looked down scornfully at the short Kozlovsky, as if surprised that there could be people who did not know him. “The general in chief is busy,” Kozlovsky calmly repeated. The general's face frowned, his lips twitched and trembled. He took out a notebook, quickly jotted something with a pencil, tore out the page, handed it over, went with quick steps to the window, dropped his body into a chair, and looked around at those who were in the room, as if asking why they were looking at him. Then the general raised his head, stretched his neck, as if intending to say something, but at once, as if casually beginning to hum to himself, produced a strange sound, which at once broke off. The door to the office opened, and Kutuzov appeared on the threshold. The general with the bandaged head, leaning forward as if fleeing from danger, went up to Kutuzov with long, rapid strides of his thin legs. “Vous voyez le malheureux Mack,”* he uttered in a breaking voice. The face of Kutuzov, who was standing in the doorway of his office, remained perfectly immobile for a few moments. Then a wrinkle passed like a wave over his face, his brow became smooth again, he inclined his head deferentially, closed his eyes, silently allowed Mack to pass, followed him in, and closed the door behind him. The rumor that had already spread earlier about the defeat of the Austrians and the surrender of the entire army at Ulm turned out to be true. Within half an hour adjutants had been sent out in various directions with orders demonstrating that the Russian troops, so far inactive, would soon also have to meet the enemy.

*

You are looking at the unfortunate Mack.

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Prince Andrei was one of the rare officers on the staff who placed his main interest in the general course of military operations. Seeing Mack and hearing the details of his ruin, he understood that half the campaign was lost, understood all the difficulty of the Russian troops' position, and vividly pictured to himself what awaited the army, and the role he was to play in it. Involuntarily, he experienced an excited, joyful feeling at the thought of the disgrace of self-confident Austria and of the fact that in a week, perhaps, he would have to see and take part in the encounter of the Russians with the French, the first since Suvorov. But he feared the genius of Bonaparte, which might prove stronger than all the courage of the Russian troops, and at the same time he could not allow for the disgrace of his hero. Excited and irritated by these thoughts, Prince Andrei went to his room to write to his father, to whom he wrote every day. In the corridor he met his roommate Nesvitsky and the joker Zherkov; they were laughing at something, as usual. “Why so glum?” asked Nesvitsky, noticing Prince Andrei's pale face with its glittering eyes. “There's nothing to be merry about,” replied Bolkonsky. Just as Prince Andrei met Nesvitsky and Zherkov, the Austrian general Strauch, attached to Kutuzov's staff to oversee the supplying of the Russian army, came from the other end of the corridor, along with the member of the Hofkriegsrath who had arrived the day before. The corridor was wide enough for the generals to pass the three officers unhindered, but Zherkov, pushing Nesvitsky aside with his hand, said in a breathless voice: “They're coming! ... they're coming! ... step aside, make way, make way, please.” The generals came on, looking as if they could do without embarrassing honors. The face of the joker Zherkov suddenly showed a stupid smile of joy, which he seemed unable to suppress. “Your Excellency,” he said in German, stepping forward and addressing the Austrian general, “I have the honor to congratulate you.” He bowed his head and began scraping with one foot, then the other, awkwardly, like children who are learning to dance. The general who was a member of the Hofkriegsrath looked at him sternly; but, noticing the seriousness of the stupid smile, could not refuse it a moment's attention. He narrowed his eyes, showing that he was listening. “I have the honor to congratulate you: General Mack has arrived in good health, except for a slight wound here,” he added with a beaming smile, pointing to his head. The general frowned, turned away, and walked on. * “Gott, wie naiv!” he said angrily after going a few steps. Nesvitsky, guffawing, put his arm around Prince Andrei, but Bolkonsky, turning still more pale, with an angry expression on his face, pushed him away and turned to Zherkov. The nervous irritation he had felt at the sight of Mack, the news of his defeat, and the thought of what awaited the Russian army now found its outlet in his anger at Zherkov's inappropriate joke. “If you, my dear sir,” he began in a shrill voice, with a slight trembling of the lower jaw, “wish to be a buffoon, I cannot prevent you from being one; but I announce to you that the next time you dare to clown in my presence, I will teach you how to behave.” Nesvitsky and Zherkov were so astounded by this outburst that they silently stared wide-eyed at Bolkonsky. “Why, I only congratulated him,” said Zherkov.

*

God, how naïve!

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“I am not joking with you, kindly keep silent!” shouted Bolkonsky, and, taking Nesvitsky by the arm, he walked away from Zherkov, who was at a loss how to reply. “Well, what's with you, brother?” Nesvitsky said peaceably. “What's with me?” said Prince Andrei, stopping in agitation. “Understand that we're either officers serving our tsar and fatherland, and rejoice in our common successes and grieve over our common failures, or we're lackeys, who have nothing to do with their masters' doings. Quarante mille hommes massacrés et l'armée de nos alliés détruite, et vous trouvez là le mot pour rire,” he said, as if clinching his opinion by this French phrase. “C'est bien pour un garçon de rien, comme cette individu, dont vous avez fait un ami, mais pas pour vous, pas pour vous.”* Only schoolboys can have fun like that,” Prince Andrei added in Russian, pronouncing the word with a French accent, noticing that Zherkov was still within earshot. He waited for the cornet to make some reply. But the cornet turned and left the corridor.

IV The Pavlogradsky hussar regiment was stationed two miles from Braunau. The squadron in which Nikolai Rostov served as a junker had settled in the German village of Salzeneck. The squadron commander, Captain Denisov, known to the whole cavalry division as Vaska Denisov, was assigned the best quarters in the village. Junker Rostov had been living with the squadron commander ever since he caught up with his regiment in Poland. On October 8th, the day when at headquarters all were brought to their feet by the news of Mack's defeat, in the squadron staff life quietly went on as before. Denisov, who had spent the whole night playing cards, was still not home when Rostov, on horseback, came back from foraging early in the morning. Rostov, in his junker's uniform, rode up to the porch, nudged his horse around, swung his leg over him in a supple, youthful movement, stood in the stirrup as if not wishing to part with his horse, finally jumped down, and shouted for the orderly. “Ah, Bondarenko, friend of my heart,” he said to the hussar who came rushing for his horse. “Give him a cooling down, my friend,” he said with that merry brotherly tenderness with which all fine young men treat everyone when they are happy. “Yes, Your Excellency,” the Ukrainian replied, merrily shaking his head. “See that you give him a cooling down!” Another hussar also rushed to the horse, but Bondarenko had already thrown the reins over the horse's head. One could see that the junker gave good tips and it was profitable to be of service to him. Rostov stroked the horse's neck, then his croup, and stopped on the porch. “Very nice! What a horse he'll be!” he said to himself and, smiling and holding his saber, ran up the steps, his spurs jingling. The German landlord, in a vest and a cap, holding the fork he was using to clear away dung, peeked out of the cowshed. As soon as he saw Rostov, the German's face suddenly brightened. He smiled merrily and winked: “Schön, gut Morgen! Schön, gut Morgen!”† he repeated, obviously taking pleasure in greeting the young man.

* Forty thousand men massacred and the army of our allies destroyed, and you find that an excuse for laughing... It's all right for a worthless fellow, like that individual you have made friends with, but not for you, not for you. † Good morning! Good morning!

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*

“Schon fleissig!” said Rostov, still with the same joyful, brotherly smile, which never left his animated face. “Hoch Oestreicher! Hoch Russen! Kaiser Alexander hoch!”† he addressed the German, repeating words often spoken by the landlord. The German laughed, came all the way out of the cowshed door, pulled off his cap, and, waving it above his head, cried: ‡ “Und die ganze Welt hoch!” Rostov himself, like the German, waved his peaked cap above his head and, laughing, shouted: “Und vivat die ganze Welt!” Though there was no particular reason for rejoicing either for the German, who was cleaning his cowshed, or for Rostov, who had gone for hay with his section, the two men looked at each other with happy delight and brotherly love, shook their heads as a sign of mutual love, and, smiling, went their way—the German to the cowshed, and Rostov to the cottage he occupied with Denisov. “How's the master?” he asked Lavrushka, Denisov's lackey, a rogue known to the whole regiment. “Hasn't been back since evening. Must've lost,” replied Lavrushka. “I know for sure, if he wins, he comes early so as to boast, but if he stays away till morning, it means he blew it—and he'll come angry. Shall I serve coffee?” “Go on, go on.” Ten minutes later Lavrushka brought coffee. “He's coming,” he said. “Now for trouble.” Rostov looked out the window and saw Denisov coming home. Denisov was a small man with a red face, shining black eyes, and disheveled black mustaches and hair. He was wearing an unbuttoned dolman, wide pleated trousers ballooning over his boots, and a crumpled hussar cap perched on the back of his head. He was approaching the porch gloomily, his head hanging. “Lavghrushka,” he shouted loudly and crossly. “Well, take it off, blockhead!” “I am taking it off,” Lavrushka's voice replied. “Ah! you're up alghready,” said Denisov, going into the room. “Long ago,” said Rostov. “I already went for hay and saw Fräulein Mathilde.” “Ah, ghreally! And I blew eveghrything last night, bghrother, like a son of a bitch!” shouted Denisov, swallowing his r's. “Such bad luck! Such bad luck! ... As soon as you left, it staghrted. Hey, tea!” Denisov, wincing as if he was smiling and baring his short, strong teeth, began tousling his forest-thick, tangled, bushy black hair with both short-fingered hands. “The devil pghrompted me to go to that ghrat” (the officer's nickname was “the Rat”), he said, rubbing his forehead and face with both hands. “Can you imagine, not a single good caghrd, not one.” Denisov took the lighted pipe served to him, clutched it in his fist, banged it on the floor, spraying sparks, and went on shouting: “He gives you the simple, and beats it with the paghroli; gives you the simple, and beats it with the paghroli.” He spilled the fire, smashed the pipe, and threw it away. Then he paused and suddenly glanced merrily at Rostov with his shining black eyes. “If only there were some women. But here, except for dghrinking, there's nothing to do. If only we'd staghrt fighting soon ... Hey, who's there?” he turned to the door, hearing the tread of heavy boots with jingling spurs come to a stop and then a respectful cough. “The sergeant major!” said Lavrushka. Already busy! Long live the Austrians! Long live the Russians! Long live Tsar Alexander! ‡ And long live the whole world! *

†

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Denisov winced still more. “Ghrotten luck,” he said, throwing down a purse with a few gold pieces. “Ghrostov, dear heaghrt, count up what's left and put it under the pillow,” he said and went out to the sergeant major. Rostov took the money and, mechanically sorting the old and new coins into separate piles, began counting it. “Ah! Telyanin! Ghreetings! I blew eveghrything last night,” Denisov's voice came from the other room. “Where? At Bykov's, at the Rat's? ... I knew it,” said a high-pitched voice, and after that Lieutenant Telyanin, a small officer from the same squadron, came in. Rostov threw the purse under the pillow and shook the small, moist hand that was held out to him. Telyanin had for some reason been transferred from the guards just before the campaign. He behaved very well in the regiment; but he was not liked, and Rostov especially could neither overcome nor conceal his causeless loathing for the man. “Well, so, young cavalryman, how's my Little Rook serving you?” he asked. (Little Rook was a saddle horse, recently broken, that Telyanin had sold to Rostov.) The lieutenant never looked the person he was talking to in the eye; his eyes constantly shifted from one object to another. “I saw you ride by today...” “He's all right, a good horse,” replied Rostov, although the horse, which he had bought for seven hundred rubles, was not worth even half that price. “He's begun to favor the left foreleg ...” he added. “The hoof's cracked! It's nothing. I'll teach you, I'll show you what sort of clinch nail to put on it.” “Yes, please show me,” said Rostov. “I will, I will, it's no secret. And you'll be thankful for the horse.” “I'll have the horse brought, then,” said Rostov, wishing to be rid of Telyanin, and he went to give orders for the horse to be brought. In the front hall, Denisov, crouching on the threshold with his pipe, sat facing the sergeant major, who was reporting something. Seeing Rostov, Denisov winced and pointed over his shoulder with his thumb to the room where Telyanin was sitting, winced again, and shuddered with loathing. “Ach, I dislike the fellow,” he said, unembarrassed by the sergeant major's presence. Rostov shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, “So do I, but what to do!” and, having given orders, went back to Telyanin. Telyanin was sitting in the same indolent pose in which Rostov had left him. rubbing his small white hands. “There are such repulsive faces in the world,” thought Rostov, going into the room. “So, did you order the horse brought?” asked Telyanin, getting up and glancing around casually. “I did.” “Well, come on then. I only stopped to ask Denisov about yesterday's orders. Did you receive them, Denisov?” “Not yet. And where are you going?” “I want to teach the young man how to shoe a horse.” They went out to the porch and to the stable. The lieutenant showed him how to do a clinch nail, and went home. When Rostov came back, there was a bottle of vodka and some sausage on the table. Denisov was sitting at the table scratching on a piece of paper with his quill. He glanced darkly at Rostov's face. “I'm writing to her,” he said. 105

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He leaned his elbow on the table, the quill in his hand, and, obviously glad of the chance to quickly speak out everything he wanted to write, began reciting his letter to Rostov. “You see, fghriend,” he said, “we're asleep until we love. We're childghren of dust... but fall in love—and you're God, you're pure as on the fighrst day of cghreation... Who's that now? Send him to the devil. No time!” he shouted to Lavrushka, who came up to him without the slightest timidity. “Who is it? You gave the order yourself. The sergeant major's come for money.” Denisov winced, was about to shout something, but kept silent. “Ghrotten business,” he said to himself. “How much money was left in the pughrse?” he asked Rostov. “Seven new and three old.” “Ah, ghrot! Well, what are you standing there for, scarecghrow, off to the sergeant major,” Denisov shouted at Lavrushka. “Please, Denisov, take money from me, I've got it,” Rostov said, blushing. “I don't like getting fghriends involved, no, I don't,” Denisov muttered. “If you won't take money from me as a friend, you'll offend me. I really have got it,” Rostov repeated. “No, no, I won't.” And Denisov went to the bed to take his purse from under the pillow. “Where'd you put it, Ghrostov?” “Under the bottom pillow.” “It's not there.” Denisov threw both pillows on the floor. The purse was not there. “That's odd!” “Wait, maybe you dropped it?” said Rostov, picking up first one pillow, then the other, and shaking them. He tore off the blanket and shook it. The purse was not there. “Maybe I forgot? No, I thought then that it was as if you were hiding a treasure under your head,” said Rostov. “I put the purse there. Where is it?” he turned to Lavrushka. “I didn't come in. It should be wherever you put it.” “But it's not.” “It's always that way, you toss something somewhere and then forget. Look in your pockets.” “No, maybe if I hadn't thought about the treasure,” said Rostov, “but I remember putting it there.” Lavrushka rummaged through the whole bed, looked under it, looked under the table, rummaged about everywhere, and stopped in the middle of the room, Denisov silently followed Lavrushka's movements, and when Lavrushka spread his arms in surprise, saying it was not to be found anywhere, he looked at Rostov. “Ghrostov, you're not a pghrankst...” Rostov felt Denisov's gaze on him, raised his eyes, and instantly lowered them. All the blood he had locked up somewhere under his throat rushed to his face and eyes. He could scarcely breathe. “There was nobody in the room except the lieutenant and you. It's here somewhere,” said Lavrushka. “Ah, you devil's puppet, stir your stumps, get looking,” Denisov shouted suddenly, turning purple and hurling himself at the lackey with a menacing gesture. “There'll be a pughrse, or I'll flog you to death. I'll flog you all to death!” Rostov, avoiding Denisov's eyes, began to button his jacket, buckled on his saber, and put on his peaked cap. 106

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“I tell you, there'll be a pughrse,” Denisov shouted, shaking the orderly by the shoulder and pushing him against the wall. “Denisov, leave him alone; I know who took it,” said Rostov, approaching the door and not raising his eyes. Denisov paused, reflected, and, evidently realizing what Rostov was alluding to, seized his arm. “Ghrubbish!” he shouted so that the veins swelled like ropes on his neck and forehead. “You've lost your mind, I tell you, I won't stand for it. The pughrse is here; I'll skin this scoundghrel alive, and it will be here.” “I know who took it,” Rostov repeated in a trembling voice, going to the door. “And I tell you, don't you dare do that,” cried Denisov, rushing at the junker to hold him back. But Rostov tore his arm free and, with as much spite as if Denisov was his greatest enemy, directly and firmly fixed his eyes on him. “Do you realize what you're saying?” he said in a trembling voice. “Besides me, there was no one else in the room. Which means, if that's not it, then...” He was unable to finish and ran out of the room. “Ah, the devil take you and all the ghrest of them” were the last words Rostov heard. Rostov went to Telyanin's quarters. “The master's not at home, he's gone to the staff,” Telyanin's orderly told him. “Has something happened?” the orderly added, surprised to see the junker's upset face. “No, nothing.” “You just missed him,” said the orderly. The staff was quartered two miles from Salzeneck. Without stopping at home, Rostov took his horse and rode to the staff. In the village occupied by the staff there was a tavern frequented by the officers. Rostov rode to the tavern; near the porch he saw Telyanin's horse. The lieutenant was sitting in the second room of the tavern over a plate of sausage and a bottle of wine. “Ah, you've come, too, young man,” he said, smiling and raising his eyebrows high. “Yes,” said Rostov, as if it cost him great effort to utter this word, and sat at the next table. Both were silent; there were two Germans in the room and a Russian officer. Everyone was silent, and only the clank of knives against plates was heard and the lieutenant's chomping. When Telyanin finished his lunch, he took a double purse from his pocket, opened the clasp with his small, white, upturned fingers, took out a gold coin and, raising his eyebrows, gave it to the waiter. “Make it quick, please,” he said. The coin was a new one. Rostov got up and went over to Telyanin. “May I look at your purse?” he said in a low, barely audible voice. With shifty eyes, but still raising his eyebrows, Telyanin handed him the purse. “Yes, a pretty purse ... Yes... yes...” he said and suddenly turned pale. “Have a look, young man,” he added. Rostov took the purse in his hands and looked at it, and at the money that was in it, and at Telyanin. The lieutenant glanced about, as was his habit, and suddenly seemed to become very merry. “If we get to Vienna, I'll leave it all there, but there's nothing to do with it in these trashy little towns,” he said. “Well, young man, give it to me, I'm leaving.” Rostov was silent. “And why are you here? Also to have lunch? The food's quite good,” Telyanin went on. “Give it to me.” 107

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He reached out and put his hand on the purse. Rostov let go of it. Telyanin took the purse and began to lower it into the pocket of his riding breeches, his eyebrows raised casually, and his mouth slightly open, as if he was saying: “Yes, yes, I'm putting my purse in my pocket, and it's quite simple, and it's nobody's business.” “Well, then, young man?” he said, sighing and looking into Rostov's eyes from under his raised eyebrows. Some sort of light, quick as an electric spark, passed from Telyanin's eyes to the eyes of Rostov and back, and forth and back again, all in an instant. “Come here,” said Rostov, seizing Telyanin by the arm. He almost dragged him to the window. “That's Denisov's money, you took it...” he whispered in his ear. “What? ... What? ... How dare you? What? ...” said Telyanin. But these words sounded like a pitiful, desperate cry and a plea for forgiveness. As soon as Rostov heard the sound of that voice, a huge burden of doubt fell from his soul. He felt joy and in the same instant also pity for the wretched man standing before him; but he had to bring the matter he had begun to a conclusion. “God knows what the people here may think,” Telyanin murmured, seizing his peaked cap and going into a small empty room, “we must have a talk...” “I know it and I'll prove it,” said Rostov. Every muscle in Telyanin's frightened, pale face began to quiver; his eyes shifted as before, but somewhere low down, not rising to Rostov's face, and there was a sound of sobbing. “Count! ... don't ruin ... a young man ... here's this wretched ... money, take it...” He threw it on the table. “I have an old father, a mother! ...” Rostov took the money, avoiding Telyanin's eyes, and, not saying a word, started out of the room. But at the door he stopped and came back. “My God,” he said, with tears in his eyes, “how could you have done it?” “Count...” said Telyanin, going up to the junker. “Don't touch me,” said Rostov, drawing back. “If you need the money, take it.” He flung the purse at him and ran out of the tavern.

V On the evening of the same day, an animated conversation was going on among the squadron officers in Denisov's quarters. “And I tell you, Rostov, that you've got to apologize to the regimental commander,” said a tall staff captain with grizzled hair, enormous mustaches, and a large-featured, wrinkled face, to the crimson-faced, excited Rostov. Staff Captain Kirsten had twice been broken to the ranks for affairs of honor and had twice won back his commission. “I won't allow anyone to call me a liar!” cried Rostov. “He called me a liar, and I called him a liar. Let it remain at that. He can assign me to duty every day, or put me under arrest, but no one will make me apologize, because if he, as the regimental commander, considers it beneath him to give me satisfaction, then...” “Wait a minute, my dear boy, listen to me,” the staff captain interrupted in his bass voice, calmly stroking his long mustache. “You tell the regimental commander, in front of other officers, that an officer has stolen...” “It's not my fault that the conversation started in front of other officers. Maybe I shouldn't have spoken in front of them, but I'm no diplomat. I joined the hussars because I thought there was no need for subtleties here, but he calls me a liar ... so let him give me satisfaction...” “That's all well and good, nobody thinks you're a coward, but that's not the point. Ask Denisov what it looks like if a junker demands satisfaction from a regimental commander.”

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Denisov, chewing his mustache, was listening to the conversation with a gloomy air, apparently unwilling to enter into it. To the staff captain's question he shook his head negatively. “You tell the regimental commander about this muck in front of officers,” the staff captain went on. “Bogdanych” (the regimental commander was known as Bogdanych) “brings you up short.” “He didn't bring me up short, he said I wasn't telling the truth.” “Well, yes, and you said a heap of foolish things to him, and you've got to apologize.” “Not for anything!” cried Rostov. “I wouldn't have thought it of you,” the staff captain said gravely and sternly. “You don't want to apologize, but you, my dear boy, are to blame all around, not only before him, but before the whole regiment, before us all. And here's how: you might have reflected and taken advice on how to handle this matter, but you blurted it right out, and in front of officers. What's the regimental commander to do now? Should he prosecute the officer and besmirch the whole regiment? Disgrace the whole regiment because of one scoundrel? Is that your view of it? Well, it's not ours. And Bogdanych is a fine fellow for saying you weren't telling the truth. It's unpleasant, but what's to be done, my dear boy, you asked for it. And now, when the affair should be hushed up, out of some sort of cockiness you refuse to apologize, but want to have it all out. It offends you that you have to go on duty, but what is it for you to apologize to an old and honorable officer! Whatever Bogdanych may have done, he is, after all, an honorable and brave old colonel—and yet you're offended, and to besmirch the whole regiment is nothing to you!” The staff captain's voice began to tremble. “You, my dear boy, have been with the regiment next to no time; here today, tomorrow somewhere else as a little adjutant; you couldn't care less if people say: 'There are thieves among the Pavlogradsky officers!' But it's not all the same to us. Isn't that right, Denisov? It's not all the same?” Denisov still kept silent and did not stir, glancing at Rostov from time to time with his shining black eyes. “Your cockiness is dear to you, you don't feel like apologizing,” the staff captain went on, “but for us old-timers, since we've grown up and, God willing, will die serving in the regiment, the honor of the regiment is dear to us, and Bogdanych knows it. Oh, how dear it is! And this is not good, not good. Whether it offends you or not, I always speak the plain truth. It's not good!” And the staff captain got up and turned away from Rostov. “Tghrue, devil take it!” shouted Denisov, jumping up. “Well, so, Ghrostov!” Rostov, blushing and paling, looked now at the one, now at the other officer. “No, gentlemen, no ... don't think ... I understand very well, you're wrong to think it of me ... I... for me ... for the honor of the regiment... well, so? I'll show it by my deeds, and for me the honor of the flag ... Well, anyhow, it's true, I'm to blame! ...” Tears welled up in his eyes. “I'm to blame, I'm to blame all around! Well, what more do you want? ...” “That's the way, Count!” the staff captain cried, turning and slapping him on the shoulder with his big hand. “It's tghrue what I told you,” shouted Denisov, “he's a good lad!” “That's better, Count!” the staff captain repeated, as if beginning to call him by his title on account of his acknowledgment. “Go and apologize, Your Excellency, yes, sir.” “Gentlemen, I'll do anything, nobody will hear a word from me,” Rostov said in a pleading voice, “but apologize I cannot, by God, I cannot, do what you will! How am I going to apologize, like a little boy asking forgiveness?” Denisov laughed. “So much the worse for you. Bogdanych is rancorous, you'll pay for your stubbornness,” said Kirsten. 109

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“By God, it's not stubbornness! I can't describe the feeling to you, I can't...” “Well, as you will,” said the staff captain. “So, what's become of the blackguard now?” he asked Denisov. “He's ghreported himself sick, as of tomoghrrow he's been ordered stghruck off,” said Denisov. “It's a sickness, there's no other explanation,” said the staff captain. “Sickness or no sickness, he'd better not show his face to me—I'll kill him!” Denisov shouted out bloodthirstily. Zherkov came into the room. “What brings you here?” the officers suddenly addressed the newcomer. “On the march, gentlemen. Mack has surrendered and his whole army with him.” “No!” “I saw him myself.” “What? Saw Mack alive? with all his arms and legs?” “On the march! On the march! Give him a bottle for such news. How did you wind up here?” “I've been sent back to the regiment again on account of this devil, this Mack. An Austrian general made a complaint. I congratulated him on Mack's arrival... What's with you, Rostov, come straight from the bathhouse?” “We've had a mess brewing here, brother, for two days now.” A regimental adjutant came in and confirmed the news brought by Zherkov. The orders were to set out the next day. “On the march, gentlemen!” “Well, thank God, we've sat enough.”

VI Kutuzov fell back towards Vienna, destroying behind him the bridges over the rivers Inn (in Braunau) and Traun (in Linz). On the twenty-third of October, the Russian troops were crossing the river Enns. At midday Russian transport, artillery, and troop columns were strung out through the town of Enns, on both sides of the bridge. The day was warm, autumnal, and rainy. The vast prospect that opened out from the height where the Russian batteries stood, defending the bridge, was now suddenly covered by a muslin curtain of slanting rain, then suddenly widened out, and in the sunlight objects became visible and clear in the distance, as if freshly varnished. At one's feet one could see the little town with its white houses and red roofs, the cathedral, and the bridge, on both sides of which streamed crowding masses of Russian troops. At the bend of the Danube one could see boats and an island, and a castle with a park, surrounded by the waters of the Enns falling into the Danube; one could see the left bank of the Danube, rocky and covered with pine forest, with a mysterious distance of green treetops and bluish gorges. One could see the towers of a convent looming up from the pine forest with its wild and untouched look, and far away on a hilltop, on the other side of the Enns, one could see the mounted patrols of the enemy. Amidst the cannons on the height, the general in charge of the rear guard stood out in front with an officer of the suite, examining the area through a spyglass. Slightly behind him on the trail of a cannon sat Nesvitsky, sent to the rear guard by the commander in chief. The Cossack who accompanied Nesvitsky handed him a bag and a flask, and Nesvitsky treated the officers to savory little pies and real Doppelkümmel. The officers joyfully surrounded him, some kneeling, some sitting Turkish fashion on the wet grass. “Yes, the Austrian prince who built a castle here was no fool. A fine place. Why aren't you eating, gentlemen?” said Nesvitsky.

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“I humbly thank you, Prince,” replied one of the officers, taking pleasure in conversing with such an important staff official. “An excellent place. We passed just by the park, saw two deer, and such a wonderful house!” “Look, Prince,” said another, who very much wanted to take one more little pie, but was embarrassed, and who therefore pretended to be surveying the area, “look, our infantrymen have already gotten in there. Over there in the little meadow beyond the village, three of them are dragging something. They'll ransack that castle,” he said with obvious approval. “They will, they will,” said Nesvitsky. “No, but what I'd like,” he added, chewing a little pie with his handsome, moist mouth, “is to climb in there.” He pointed to the convent with its towers, visible on the hilltop. He smiled, his eyes narrowed and lit up. “Wouldn't that be nice, gentlemen?” The officers laughed. “At least to put a fright into those little nuns. There are some Italian girls, young ones, they say. Really, I'd give five years of my life!” “They must be bored, too,” an officer, a bolder one, said laughing. Meanwhile, the officer of the suite, who was standing in front, was pointing something out to the general; the general was looking through the glass. “Well, that's it, that's it,” the general said angrily, taking the glass from his eye and shrugging his shoulders, “that's it, they're going to fire on the crossing. And what are they dawdling for?” On the other side the naked eye could make out the enemy and his battery, from which a puff of milk-white smoke appeared. The smoke was followed by the sound of a distant shot, and it could be seen how our troops speeded up at the crossing. Nesvitsky, huffing, got up and, smiling, went over to the general. “Wouldn't Your Excellency like a bite to eat?” he said. “A bad business,” said the general, not answering him, “our men have been dawdling.” “Shouldn't I ride over, Your Excellency?” said Nesvitsky. “Yes, please do,” said the general, repeating what had already been ordered in detail, “and tell the hussars that they are to cross last and set fire to the bridge as I said, and inspect the flammable material while still on the bridge.” “Very good, sir,” replied Nesvitsky. He called the Cossack with the horse, told him to put the bag and flask away, and lightly swung his heavy body into the saddle. “I'll stop by those nuns, really,” he said to the officers, who were looking at him smilingly, and rode down the hill along a winding path. “Well, let's give it a try, Captain, see how far it will carry!” said the general, turning to the artillerist. “Have some fun out of boredom.” “Crew, to your pieces!” the officer commanded, and in a minute the artillery crew ran merrily from their campfires and loaded up. “One!” came the command. Number one leaped back briskly. A deafening metallic sound rang out, and a shell flew whistling over the heads of all our men at the foot of the hill and, falling far short of the enemy, showed by a puff of smoke the place where it hit and burst. The faces of the soldiers and officers cheered up at this sound; everybody stood up and began watching the movements of our troops below, visible as on the palm of the hand, and further away the movements of the advancing enemy. Just then the sun came all the way out from behind the clouds, and the beautiful sound of the solitary shot and the shining of the bright sun merged into one cheerful and merry impression.

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VII Two enemy cannonballs had already gone flying over the bridge, and there was a crush on the bridge itself. In the middle of the bridge, dismounted from his horse, his fat body pressed to the railing, stood Prince Nesvitsky. He looked back laughingly at his Cossack, who stood a few paces behind him holding the two horses by the bridle. The moment Prince Nesvitsky tried to move on, soldiers and carts pushed him back and pressed him to the railing again, and there was nothing left for him but to smile. “You there, brother!” the Cossack said to a supply soldier with a cart, who was pushing through the infantrymen crowded right against his wheels and horses, “you there! As if you can't wait; look, the general needs to pass.” But the supply soldier, paying no heed the denomination of general, shouted at the soldiers who blocked his way: “Hey, countrymen! keep to the left, hold up!” But the countrymen, pressed shoulder to shoulder, catching on their bayonets and never pausing, moved across the bridge in a solid mass. Looking down over the railing, Prince Nesvitsky saw the swift, noisy, low waves of the Enns, which, merging, rippling, and swirling around the pilings of the bridge, drove on one after the other. Looking at the bridge, he saw the same monotonous living waves of soldiers, shoulder braids, shakos with dustcovers, packs, bayonets, long muskets, and under the shakos faces with wide cheekbones, sunken cheeks, and carefree, weary faces, and feet moving over the sticky mud that covered the planks of the bridge. Occasionally, amidst the monotonous waves of soldiers, like a spray of white foam on the waves of the Enns, an officer pushed his way through, in a cape, with his physiognomy distinct from the soldiers'; occasionally, like a chip of wood swirled along by the river, a dismounted hussar, an orderly, or a local inhabitant was borne across the bridge by the waves of infantry; occasionally, like a log floating down the river, a company's or an officer's cart floated across the bridge, surrounded on all sides, loaded to the top, and covered with leather. “Look at 'em, it's like a dam burst,” the Cossack said, stopping hopelessly. “Are there many of you there?” “One shy of a million,” a merry soldier in a torn greatcoat, passing close by, said with a wink and vanished; after him came another old soldier. “Once he” (be was the enemy) “starts peppering the bridge,” the old soldier said gloomily, addressing his comrade, “you'll forget about scratching yourself.” And the soldier passed by. After him came another soldier on a cart. “Where the devil did you stuff those foot cloths?” said an orderly, running behind the cart and rummaging in the back. And this one passed by with the cart. After him came some merry and apparently tipsy soldiers. “He just gave it to him, the dear fellow, right in the teeth with his musket butt...” one soldier in a high-tucked greatcoat said joyfully, swinging his arm widely. “That's it, the sweet taste of ham,” replied another with a guffaw. And they passed by, so that Nesvitsky never learned who got it in the teeth and what the ham referred to, “Look at 'em scurrying! He fires off a cold one, and you'd think they were all getting killed,” a warrant officer said angrily and reproachfully. “When that cannonball went flying by me, uncle,” a young soldier with a huge mouth said, barely holding back his laughter, “I just went dead. By God, I got scared really bad!” the soldier said, as if boasting that he was scared. And that one passed by. After him came a cart unlike all those that had driven by so far. It was a German Vorspann and pair, loaded with what seemed like a whole household; behind the Vorspann, led by a German, was tied a beautiful spotted cow with a huge

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udder. A woman with a nursing baby, an old woman, and a young, healthy German girl with purple-red cheeks were sitting on featherbeds. It was clear that these were local people, who had been allowed to move by special permission. The eyes of all the soldiers turned to the women, and as the cart went by, moving step by step, all the soldiers' remarks were addressed only to these two women. All the soldiers' faces bore virtually one and the same smile of indecent thoughts about these women. “Look, the sausage is also taking off!” “Sell me the little lady,” another soldier said, with a stress on the last syllable, addressing the German, who, lowering his eyes, walked on with big strides, angry and frightened. “Look how dressed up she is! The devils!” “Nice to get billeted on them, Fedotov!” “I should live so long, brother!” “Where are you going?” asked an infantry officer, eating an apple, also with a half smile and looking at the beautiful girl. The German shut his eyes to show that he did not understand. “If you want it, take it,” said the officer, handing the apple to the girl. The girl smiled and took it. Like everyone else on the bridge, Nesvitsky never took his eyes off the women until they had passed. Once they had passed, there again came the same soldiers, with the same talk, and finally everybody stopped. As often happens, the horses pulling the company cart balked at the exit from the bridge, and the whole crowd had to wait. “What did they stop for? There's no order!” said the soldiers. “What's this shoving ahead? Devil take it! There's such a thing as waiting. It'll be worse if he sets fire to the bridge. See, even the officer got shoved aside,” the halted crowds were saying on different sides, looking at each other, and still pressing forward towards the exit. Having looked under the bridge at the waters of the Enns, Nesvitsky suddenly heard a sound still new to him, the swift approach of... something big, and something splashed into the water. “See what he's fixing on!” a soldier standing nearby said sternly, turning towards the sound. “He's hustling us so we'll cross quicker,” another said uneasily. The crowd started moving again. Nesvitsky realized that it was a cannonball. “Hey, Cossack, my horse!” he said. “Hey, you! Aside, step aside! make way!” With great effort he reached his horse. Shouting constantly, he began to move ahead. The soldiers pressed back to let him pass, then pressed together again so hard that his leg was squashed, and those closest to him were not to blame, for they were pressed still harder. “Nesvitsky! Nesvitsky! You ghrascal!” a hoarse voice came from behind just then. Nesvitsky turned and saw, fifteen paces away, separated from him by the living mass of moving infantry, red, black, disheveled, his peaked cap pushed back, his dolman thrown dashingly over his shoulder—Vaska Denisov. “Tell these damned devils to clear the ghroad!” shouted Denisov, obviously in a fit of temper, his coal-black eyes with bloodshot whites rolling and shining, and waving his sheathed saber, which he held in a small, bare hand as red as his face. “Hey! Vasya!” Nesvitsky replied joyfully. “What's the matter?” “The squadghron can't pass,” shouted Vaska Denisov, angrily baring his white teeth, spurring his handsome raven-black Bedouin, who, twitching his ears from running into bayonets, snorting, spraying foam around him from his bit, jingling, stamped his hooves on the planks of the bridge and seemed ready to jump over the railing if his rider would let him. 113

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“What is this? like sheep! just like sheep! Away! ... clear the ghroad! Wait, you there! you with the caghrt, you devil! I'll take my swoghrd to you!” he shouted, actually drawing his saber and beginning to wave it. The soldiers pressed close together with frightened faces, and Denisov joined Nesvitsky. “How is it you're not drunk today?” Nesvitsky said to Denisov, when he rode up to him. “They don't even give us time to dghrink!” replied Vaska Denisov. “They dghrag the ghregiment here and there all day. If it's fighting, it's fighting. Or else devil knows what it is!” “What a dandy you are today!” said Nesvitsky, looking over his new dolman and saddlecloth. Denisov smiled, took from his pouch a handkerchief that gave off a smell of scent, and put it to Nesvitsky's nose. “Have to be, I'm going into action! Shaved, bghrushed my teeth, and doused myself with scent.” The stately figure of Nesvitsky, accompanied by the Cossack, and the resoluteness of Denisov, waving his saber and shouting desperately, had such an effect that they pushed through to the other end of the bridge and stopped the infantry. At the exit Nesvitsky found the colonel to whom he was to give the order, and, having fulfilled his mission, rode back again. Having cleared the road, Denisov stopped at the entrance to the bridge. Casually holding back his stallion, who was straining towards his fellows and stamping his foot, he looked at the squadron that was moving towards him. The transparent sounds of hooves rang out on the planks of the bridge, as if several horses were galloping, and the squadron, with officers in front, four men abreast, stretched across the bridge and began to come out on the other side. The halted infantry soldiers, crowding in the trampled mud by the bridge, gazed at the clean, foppish hussars going past them in order, with that special feeling of ill will, alienation, and mockery with which different branches of the military usually meet each other. “Spruced-up lads! Fit for the fairground!” “What's the good of them! They're only led around for show!” said another. “Don't raise dust, you footsloggers!” joked a hussar, whose horse, prancing, splashed mud at the infantryman. “Make a couple of marches with a pack on your back, your fancy trim will turn shabby,” the infantryman said, wiping the mud from his face with his sleeve, “or maybe it's not a man but a bird perched up there!” “Wouldn't you be a nimble one, Zikin, if they set you on a horse,” a corporal joked to a thin little soldier bent under a heavy pack. “Put a stick between your legs, that'll do you for a horse,” rejoined the hussar.

VIII The rest of the infantry hurriedly crossed the bridge, squeezing into a funnel at the entrance. Finally all the carts passed over, the crush eased up, and the last battalion entered the bridge. Only the hussars of Denisov's squadron remained on the other side of the bridge facing the enemy. The enemy, visible in the distance from the opposite hill, were not yet visible from the bridge below, because, from the bottom where the river flowed, the horizon was bounded by the opposite heights less than half a mile away. Ahead was a deserted space over which clusters of our Cossack patrols moved here and there. Suddenly on the road going up the opposite heights appeared troops in blue coats and 114

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artillery. It was the French. A Cossack patrol moved down the hill at a trot. All the officers and men of Denisov's squadron, though they tried to talk about unrelated things and look elsewhere, constantly thought only about what was there on the hill, and kept peering at the spots that appeared on the horizon, which they recognized as enemy troops. After midday the weather cleared again, the sun shone brightly, going down over the Danube and the dark hills around it. It was still, and once in a while from that hill floated the sounds of bugles and the shouts of the enemy. Between the squadron and the enemy there was now nothing but some small patrols. They were separated by an empty space of about six hundred yards. The enemy stopped shooting, and that strict, menacing, inaccessible, and elusive line that separates two enemy armies became all the more clearly felt. “One step beyond that line, reminiscent of the line separating the living from the dead, and it's the unknown, suffering, and death. And what is there? who is there? there, beyond this field, and the tree, and the roof lit by the sun? No one knows, and you would like to know; and you're afraid to cross that line, and would like to cross it; and you know that sooner or later you will have to cross it and find out what is there on the other side of the line, as you will inevitably find out what is there on the other side of death. And you're strong, healthy, cheerful, and excited, and surrounded by people just as strong and excitedly animated.” So, if he does not think it, every man feels who finds himself within sight of an enemy, and this feeling gives a particular brilliance and joyful sharpness of impression to everything that happens in those moments. On a knoll occupied by the enemy, the smoke of a shot appeared, and a cannonball flew whistling over the heads of the hussar squadron. The officers, who were standing together, rode to their posts. The hussars assiduously began lining up their horses. Everything became hushed in the squadron. Everyone kept looking ahead at the enemy and at the squadron commander, awaiting a command. Another cannonball flew over, then a third. Obviously, the shots were aimed at the hussars; but the cannonballs, with a rapid, steady whistling, kept flying over the hussars' heads and hitting somewhere behind them. The hussars did not look back, but with each sound of a flying cannonball, the whole squadron, as if on command, with all their similarly dissimilar faces, holding their breath while the cannonball flew over, rose in their stirrups, then lowered themselves again. Without turning their heads, the soldiers looked sideways at each other, curious to spy out a comrade's impressions. On each face, from Denisov's down to the bugler's, there appeared around the lips and chin one common trait of a struggle between irritation and excitement. The sergeant major frowned, looking the soldiers over as if threatening them with punishment. Junker Mironov ducked down each time a cannonball flew by. Rostov, standing on the left flank, on his slightly lame but imposing Little Rook, had the happy air of a schoolboy called up before a large public at an examination in which he is sure he will distinguish himself. He looked around at them all serenely and brightly, as if asking them to pay attention to how calmly he stood under fire. But on his face, too, that same trait of something new and stern appeared, against his will, around the mouth. “Who's that bowing there? Junker Mighronov! Not ghright, look at me!” shouted Denisov, who could not stay still and fidgeted on his horse in front of the squadron. Vaska Denisov's pug-nosed and black-haired face, and his whole small, compact figure with his sinewy hand (the short fingers covered with hair), in which he gripped the hilt of his bared saber, was the same as ever, especially towards evening, after drinking a couple of bottles. Only he was more red than usual and, throwing his shaggy head back, the way birds do when they drink, and mercilessly digging the spurs on his small feet into the sides of the good Bedouin, he galloped off, as if falling backwards, to the other flank of the squadron and shouted in a hoarse voice that they should inspect their pistols. He rode up to Kirsten. The staff captain, on his broad and sedate mare, rode slowly to meet

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Denisov. The staff captain, with his long mustaches, was as serious as ever, only his eyes shone more than usual. “Well, what?” he said to Denisov. “It won't come to a fight. You'll see, we'll withdraw.” “Devil knows what they're up to!” Denisov grumbled. “Ah! Ghrostov!” he cried to the junker, noticing his cheerful face. “Well, you're done waiting!” And he smiled approvingly, obviously glad for the junker. Rostov felt himself perfectly happy. Just then the commander appeared on the bridge. Denisov galloped towards him. “Your Excellency! allow us to attack! I'll cghrush them!” “Attack, indeed!” the colonel said in a bored voice, wincing as if a fly was pestering him. “And why are you standing here? You can see the flanks are retreating. Bring the squadron back across.” The squadron crossed the bridge and moved out of the range of fire without losing a single man. After them the second squadron, forming a line, also crossed, and the last Cossacks cleared off from that side. Having crossed the bridge, the two squadrons of the Pavlogradsky hussars went back up the hill one after the other. The regimental commander, Karl Bogdanovich Schubert, rode over to Denisov's squadron and fell in step with them not far from Rostov, paying no attention to him, though this was the first time they had seen each other since their confrontation over Telyanin. Rostov, feeling himself at the front and in the power of a man before whom he now considered himself guilty, fixed his eyes on the athletic back, blond nape, and red neck of the regimental commander. At first it seemed to Rostov that Bogdanych was only pretending to be inattentive and that his whole goal now consisted in testing the junker's courage, and he sat up straight and looked around cheerfully. Then it seemed to him that Bogdanych was deliberately riding close to him in order to show Rostov his own courage. Then he thought that his enemy would now deliberately send the squadron into a desperate attack in order to punish him, Rostov. Then he thought that, after the attack, he would come to him as he lay wounded and magnanimously offer him a conciliatory hand. Zherkov, with his shoulders raised high, a familiar figure to the Pavlogradsky hussars (he had recently quit their regiment), rode up to the regimental commander. After his expulsion from the head staff, Zherkov had not remained with the regiment, saying that he was no fool to drudge away at the front when he could get more decorations while doing nothing on the staff, and he had managed to set himself up as an orderly officer for Prince Bagra-tion. He came to his former superior with an order from the commander of the rear guard. “Colonel,” he said with his gloomy earnestness, addressing Rostov's enemy and looking around at his comrades, “there is an order to stop and set fire to the bridge.” “An order of who?” the colonel asked sullenly. “I don't know of who, Colonel,” the cornet replied earnestly, “only the prince told me: 'Go and tell the colonel that the hussars must turn back quickly and set fire to the bridge.’” After Zherkov, an officer of the suite rode up to the hussar colonel with the same order. After the officer of the suite, on a Cossack horse that was barely able to gallop under him, fat Nesvitsky rode up. “What is this, Colonel?” he cried while still riding. “I told you to set fire to the bridge, and somebody got it wrong; everybody's going crazy there, they can't figure it out.” The colonel unhurriedly halted his regiment and turned to Nesvitsky. “You spoke to me about flammable material,” he said, “but you said nothing to me about setting feuer to it.” “What do you mean, my dear man?” Nesvitsky said, stopping, taking off his cap, and smoothing his sweat-dampened hair with a plump hand. “What do you mean I didn't tell you to set fire to the bridge, since you put flammable material there?” 116

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“I am not 'dear man' to you, Mister Staff Officer, and you did not tell me to set feuer to the bridge! I know the serfiss, and I am habituated to strictly fulfilling orders. You said the bridge vas to be set on feuer, but who vould set it on feuer I cannot know by the Holy Spirit...” “It's always like that,” Nesvitsky said, waving his hand. “What are you doing here?” he turned to Zherkov. “The same as you. You're soaking wet, though, let me wring you out.” “You said, Mister Staff Officer...” the colonel went on in an offended tone. “Colonel,” the officer of the suite interrupted, “you must hurry, otherwise the enemy will move up his canister guns.” The colonel looked silently at the officer of the suite, at the fat Staff officer, at Zherkov, and frowned. “I vill set feuer to the bridge,” he said in a solemn tone, as if to show that, despite all the unpleasantness done to him, he would still do what he had to do. Striking his horse with his long, muscular legs, as if it was all the horse's fault, the colonel moved forward and commanded the second squadron, the one in which Rostov served under Denisov, to go back to the bridge. “Well, that's it,” thought Rostov, “he wants to test me!” His heart contracted and the blood rushed to his face. “Let him see whether I'm a coward,” he thought. Again there appeared on all the cheerful faces of the men of the squadron that serious trait that had been there when they were under fire. Rostov, never taking his eyes away, kept looking at his enemy, the regimental commander, wishing to find on his face a confirmation of his surmises; but the colonel never once glanced at Rostov, but, as always at the front, looked stern and solemn. The command was heard. “Step lively! Step lively!” several voices said near him. Their sabers catching in their bridles, their spurs jingling, the hussars hurriedly dismounted, not knowing themselves what they were going to do. The hussars crossed themselves. Rostov no longer looked at the regimental commander—he had no time. He was afraid, with a sinking heart he was afraid to lag behind the hussars. His hand shook as he turned his horse over to the handler, and he felt the blood throbbing as it rose to his heart. Denisov, lurching backwards and shouting something, rode past him. Rostov saw nothing but the hussars running around him, their spurs catching and their sabers clanking. “Stretcher!” someone's voice shouted behind. Rostov did not think of what the call for a stretcher meant; he ran on, trying only to be ahead of everyone else; but just by the bridge, not looking under his teet, he got into the slimy, trampled mud, stumbled, and fell on his hands. Others ran past him. “On bote sides, Captain,” he heard the voice of the regimental commander, who, having ridden ahead, stood mounted near the bridge with a triumphant and merry face. Rostov, wiping his muddy hands on his breeches, looked at his enemy and wanted to run further, supposing that the further ahead he got, the better it would be. But Bogdanych, though he neither looked at nor recognized Rostov, shouted at him. “Who's that running in the middle of the bridge? Keep to the right! Back, junker!” he cried out angrily and turned to Denisov, who, flaunting his courage, rode out onto the planks of the bridge. “Vy riskiert, Captain! Better dismount,” said the colonel. “Eh! it'll find the one it's meant for,” replied Denisov, turning on his saddle. Meanwhile, Nesvitsky, Zherkov, and the officer of the suite stood together out of the range of fire and looking at this small bunch of men in yellow shakos, dark green jackets embroidered with cord, and blue breeches, pottering about by the bridge and, on the other

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side, at blue coats and groups with horses, which could easily be identified as artillery, approaching in the distance. “Will they set fire to it or won't they? Who'll be first? Will they run and set fire to the bridge, or will the French come within canister-shot range and kill them all?” These questions were involuntarily asked with sinking heart by each man of that large mass of troops which stood above the bridge and in the bright evening light looked at the bridge and the hussars and, on the other side, at the advancing blue coats with bayonets and guns. “Ah! the hussars are going to get it!” said Nesvitsky. “It's close enough for canister shot now.” “He shouldn't have taken so many men,” said the officer of the suite. “Indeed not,” said Nesvitsky. “If he'd sent two brave lads, it would be the same.” “Ah, Your Excellency,” Zherkov mixed in, not taking his eyes from the hussars, but still with his naïve manner, which made it impossible to tell whether he was speaking seriously or not. “Ah, Your Excellency! What a way to reason! Send two men, and who's 5 going to give us a Vladimir with a bow? This way they may get beaten, but the squadron will be distinguished, and he'll get a bow. Our Bogdanych knows the system.” “Well,” said the officer of the suite, “there's the canisters!” He pointed to the French guns, which were being taken from their limbers and hurriedly deployed. On the French side, among those groups where the guns were, a puff of smoke appeared, a second, a third almost simultaneously, and just as the sound of the first shot reached them, a fourth appeared. Two sounds one after another, and a third. “Oh, oh!” gasped Nesvitsky, as if from burning pain, seizing the officer of the suite by the arm. “Look, he's fallen, one of them has fallen, fallen!” “Two of them, I believe?” “If I were the tsar, I'd never go to war,” Nesvitsky said, turning away. The French guns were being hurriedly reloaded. The infantry in blue coats moved towards the bridge at a run. Again puffs of smoke appeared at various intervals, and canister shot went crackling and rattling over the bridge. But this time Nesvitsky could not see what was happening on the bridge. Thick smoke rose from it. The hussars had managed to set fire to the bridge, and the French batteries were now shooting not in order to hinder them, but because the guns had been aimed and there were people to shoot at. The French managed to fire three rounds of canister shot before the hussars got back to the horse-tenders. Two of the rounds were poorly aimed and all the shot went overhead, but the last round landed in the middle of a bunch of hussars and brought down three of them. Rostov, preoccupied by his relations with Bogdanych, stopped on the bridge, not knowing what to do with himself. There was no one to cut down (as he had always pictured battle to himself), nor could he help set fire to the bridge, because, unlike the other soldiers, he had not brought a plait of straw with him. He was standing and looking about, when suddenly there was a rattling on the bridge, as if someone had spilled nuts, and one of the hussars, the one nearest him, fell on the railing with a groan. Rostov ran to him with the others. Again someone cried: “Stretcher!” Four men took hold of the hussar and began to lift him up. “Oooh! Leave me alone, for Christ's sake,” the wounded man cried; but all the same they lifted him up and laid him on the stretcher. Nikolai Rostov turned away, and, as if searching for something, began looking at the distance, at the waters of the Danube, at the sky, at the sun! How good the sky seemed, how blue, calm, and deep! How bright and solemn the setting sun! How tenderly and lustrously glistened the waters of the distant Danube! And better still were the distant blue 118

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hills beyond the Danube, the convent, the mysterious gorges, the pine forests bathed in mist to their tops ... there was peace, happiness ... “There's nothing, nothing I would wish for, there's nothing I would wish for, if only I were there,” thought Rostov. “In me alone and in this sun there is so much happiness, but here ... groans, suffering, fear, and this obscurity, this hurry ... Again they're shouting something, and again everybody's ran back somewhere, and I'm running with them, and here it is, here it is, death, above me, around me ... An instant, and I'll never again see this sun, this water, this gorge...” Just then the sun began to hide itself behind the clouds. Ahead of Rostov, another stretcher appeared. And his fear of death and the stretcher, and his love of the sun and life—all merged into one painfully disturbing impression. “Lord God! the one there in this sky, save, forgive, and protect me!” Rostov whispered to himself. The hussars ran up to the handlers, the voices became louder and calmer, the stretchers disappeared from sight. “What, bghrother, got a whiff of powder?” Denisov's voice shouted by his ear. “It's all over, but I'm a coward, yes, I'm a coward,” thought Rostov and, sighing deeply, he took his lame Little Rook from the handler and began to mount. “What was it, canister shot?” he asked Denisov. “And then some!” shouted Denisov. “Good work, lads! And it was a ghrotten job! Attacking's a lovely thing, cut 'em to pieces, but here, devil knows, it's more like target pghractice.” And Denisov rode off to a group that had stopped not far from Rostov: the regimental commander, Nesvitsky, Zherkov, and the officer of the suite. “However, it seems nobody noticed,” Rostov thought to himself. And indeed no one had noticed anything, because they were all familiar with the feeling a junker experiences when he is under fire for the first time. “There'll be a report in it for you,” said Zherkov. “Just see if I don't get promoted sublieutenant.” “Inform the prince that I haf set feuer to the bridge,” the colonel said triumphantly and cheerfully. “And what if he asks about the losses?” “Trifles!” the colonel boomed. “Two hussars wounded and one kilted on the spot,” he said with obvious joy, unable to hold back a happy smile, sonorously rapping out the beautiful phrase killed on the spot.

IX Pursued by the hundred-thousand-man French army under the leadership of Bonaparte, encountering a hostile local populace, no longer trusting their allies, suffering from a shortness of supplies, and forced to act outside all foreseeable conditions of war, the thirty-five-thousand-man Russian army, under the leadership of Kutuzov, hastily retreated down the Danube, stopping whenever the enemy caught up with it and fighting rear-guard actions, only insofar as it was necessary in order to retreat without loss of heavy equipment. There was action at Lambach, Amstetten, and Molk;6 but despite the courage and steadfastness, acknowledged by the enemy themselves, with which the Russians fought, the result of these actions was only a still speedier retreat. The Austrian troops that had escaped capture at Ulm and joined Kutuzov at Braunau now separated from the Russian army, and Kutuzov was left with nothing but his own weak, exhausted forces. To defend Vienna was no longer thinkable. Instead of the offensive war, profoundly thought out according to the laws of the new science of strategy, the plan of which had been given to Kutuzov while in Vienna by the Austrian Hofkriegsrath, the sole, almost unattainable

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goal now remaining for Kutuzov was to unite with the troops coming from Russia without losing his own army, as Mack had done at Ulm. On the twenty-eighth of October, Kutuzov crossed with his army to the left bank of the Danube and halted for the first time, having put the Danube between himself and the main forces of the French. On the thirtieth he attacked Mortier's division, which was on the left bank of the Danube, and crushed it. In this action trophies were taken for the first time: a banner, cannon, and two enemy generals. For the first time, after a two-week retreat, the Russian troops halted and after the fighting not only held the field of battle but drove the French away. Despite the fact that the troops were ill-clad, worn-out, weakened by a third with the Stragglers, the wounded, the dead, and the sick; despite the fact that the sick and the wounded had been left on the other side of the Danube with a letter from Kutuzov entrusting them to the humaneness of the enemy; despite the fact that the big hospitals and the houses in Krems that had been turned into infirmaries could no longer accommodate all the sick and wounded—despite all that, the halt at Krems and the victory over Mortier raised the spirits of the troops significantly. Throughout the army and in headquarters joyful, though incorrect, rumors were rife about the imaginary approach of columns from Russia, about some victory won by the Austrians, and about the retreat of the frightened Bonaparte. At the time of the battle, Prince Andrei was attached to the Austrian general Schmidt, killed in that action. His horse had been shot from under him, and his arm had been slightly grazed by a bullet. As a sign of special favor, the commander in chief had sent him with news of the victory to the Austrian court, no longer in Vienna, which was threatened by the French, but in Brunn. On the night of the battle, Prince Andrei, agitated but not tired (despite his apparently slight build, Prince Andrei could endure physical fatigue far better than the strongest people), having come on horseback with a message from Dokhturov to Kutuzov in Krems, was sent that same night as a courier to Brunn. Being sent as a courier, apart from its rewards, also signified an important step towards promotion. The night was dark, starry; the road lay black amidst the white snow that had fallen that day, the day of the battle. Now going over his impressions of the past battle, now joyfully imagining the impression he would make with his news of the victory, recalling his leavetaking from the commander in chief and his comrades, Prince Andrei galloped along in a post britzka, experiencing the feeling of a man who has long been awaiting and has finally achieved the beginning of the happiness he desired. As soon as he closed his eyes, the firing of muskets and cannon resounded in his ears, merging with the rattle of the carriage and the impression of the victory. Now he would begin to imagine that the Russians were fleeing, that he himself had been killed; but then he would hurriedly wake up and happily learn as if for the first time that none of it had happened and that, on the contrary, the French had fled. He would recall once more all the details of the victory, his calm manliness during the battle, and, reassured, would doze off ... After the dark starry night came a bright, cheerful morning. The snow melted in the sun, the horses galloped swiftly, and to right and left alike passed new and various forests, fields, villages. At one of the posting stations he overtook a convoy carrying Russian wounded. The Russian officer who was leading the transport, sprawled in the front cart, shouted something, abusing a soldier in rude terms. Six or more pale, bandaged, and dirty wounded went jolting down the rocky road in each of the long German Vorspanns. Some of them were talking (he heard Russian speech), others were eating bread, the most seriously wounded gazed at the courier galloping past them silently, with a meek and sickly childish interest. Prince Andrei ordered the driver to stop and asked the soldiers what action they had been wounded in. 120

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“Two days ago on the Danube,” a soldier replied. Prince Andrei took out a purse and gave the soldier three gold pieces. “For all of you,” he added, addressing the approaching officer. “Get well, lads,” he said to the soldiers, “there's still a lot to be done.” “Well, Mister Adjutant, what news?” asked the officer, obviously wishing to strike up a conversation. “Good news! ... Drive on,” he cried to the coachman and galloped on his way. It was already quite dark when Prince Andrei drove into Brunn and saw himself surrounded by tall buildings, lighted shops, windows, street lamps, fine carriages noisily driving over the pavement, and all the atmosphere of a big, lively town, which is always so attractive for a military man after camp life. Prince Andrei, despite the quick driving and the sleepless night, felt himself still more animated than the day before as he pulled up to the palace. Only his eyes shone with a feverish gleam and his thoughts followed one another with extraordinary speed and clarity. He vividly pictured again all the details of the battle, not vaguely now, but in the well-defined, concise account which, in his imagination, he was giving to the emperor Franz. He vividly pictured the casual questions that might be put to him and the answers he would give to them. He supposed that he would be presented to the emperor at once. But at the main entrance to the palace, an official came running out to him and, recognizing that he was a courier, led him to another entrance. “To the right from the corridor; there, Euer Hochgeboren,* you will find the imperial adjutant on duty,” said the official. “He will take you to the minister of war.” The imperial adjutant on duty, meeting Prince Andrei, asked him to wait and went to the minister of war. Five minutes later the imperial adjutant returned and, inclining with particular courtesy and letting Prince Andrei go ahead of him, led him down the corridor to the office where the minister of war worked. The imperial adjutant seemed to want to protect himself from any attempts at familiarity from the Russian adjutant. Prince Andrei's joyful feeling weakened significantly as he approached the doors of the minister of war's office. He felt offended, and the feeling of offense turned that same instant, without his noticing it, into a feeling of totally groundless scorn. His resourceful mind suggested to him that same instant the point of view from which he had the right to scorn both the adjutant and the minister of war. “To him it must seem very easy to win a victory, having never had a whiff of powder!” he thought. His eyes narrowed scornfully; he entered the minister of war's office especially slowly. This feeling increased still more when he saw the minister of war sitting at the big desk and for the first two minutes paying no attention to the one who had entered. The minister of war had lowered his bald head with gray temples between two wax candles and was reading some papers, making notes with a pencil. He went on reading to the end, without raising his head, when the door opened and footsteps were heard. “Take this and deliver it,” the minister of war said to his adjutant, handing him the papers and still paying no attention to the courier. Prince Andrei felt that either, of all the matters that occupied the minister of war, the actions of Kutuzov's army must interest him the least, or that he had to give the Russian courier that feeling. “But it's all quite the same to me,” he thought. The minister of war put the rest of the papers together, stacked them evenly, and raised his head. He had an intelligent and characteristic head. But the moment he turned to Prince Andrei, the intelligent and firm expression on the minister of war's face changed, evidently habitually and consciously: there remained on his face the stupid, feigned smile, which did not conceal its feigning, of a man who receives many petitioners one after the other. *

Your Excellency.

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“From General Field Marshal Kutuzov?” he asked. “With good news, I hope? There was an encounter with Mortier? A victory? About time!” He took the dispatch, which was addressed to him, and began reading it with a sorrowful expression. “Ah, my God! My God! Schmidt!” he said in German. “What a misfortune! What a misfortune!” Having looked through the dispatch, he put it on the table and glanced at Prince Andrei, clearly weighing something. “Ah, what a misfortune! You say it was a decisive action? Mortier wasn't taken, however.” (He reflected.) “I'm very glad you've come with good news, though Schmidt's death is a high price for a victory. His Majesty will certainly wish to see you, but not today. Thank you, get some rest. Be at the levee tomorrow after the parade. I'll let you know, however.” The stupid smile that had disappeared during the conversation reappeared on the minister of war's face. “Good-bye, thank you very much. The sovereign emperor will probably wish to see you,” he repeated and inclined his head. When Prince Andrei left the palace, he felt that all the interest and happiness afforded him by the victory had now left him and been given over into the indifferent hands of the minister of war and the courteous adjutant. His whole way of thinking changed instantly: the battle appeared to him now as a long-past, far-off memory.

X Prince Andrei stayed in Brunn with his acquaintance, the Russian diplomat Bilibin. “Ah, dear prince, there's no guest more welcome,” said Bilibin, coming out to meet Prince Andrei. “Franz, take the prince's things to my bedroom!” he turned to the servant who accompanied Bolkonsky. “What, are you a herald of victory? Excellent. And I'm sitting here sick, as you see.” Prince Andrei, having washed and dressed, came out to the diplomat's luxurious study and sat down to the prepared dinner. Bilibin settled comfortably by the fireplace. Not only after his trip, but after the whole campaign, during which he had been deprived of all the comforts of cleanliness and the refinements of life, Prince Andrei experienced the pleasant feeling of repose amidst the luxurious conditions of life to which he had been accustomed since childhood. Besides, it was pleasant for him, after his Austrian reception, to speak, if not Russian (they spoke French), at least with a Russian man, who, he supposed, shared the general Russian aversion (now especially sharply felt) to the Austrians. Bilibin was a man of about thirty-five, a bachelor, of the same society as Prince Andrei. They had been acquainted back in Petersburg, but had become more closely acquainted during Prince Andrei's visit to Vienna with Kutuzov. As Prince Andrei was a young man who promised to go far in his military career, so, and still more, was Bilibin promising in the diplomacy. He was still a young man, but no longer a young diplomat, since he had begun to serve at the age of sixteen, had been in Paris, in Copenhagen, and now occupied a rather important post in Vienna. Both the chancellor and our ambassador 7 in Vienna knew him and valued him. He did not belong to that large number of diplomats whose duty it is to have only negative merits, to not do certain things, and to speak French so as to be very good diplomats; he was one of those diplomats who like and know how to work, and, despite his laziness, he occasionally spent nights at his desk. He worked equally well whatever the essence of the work consisted of. He was interested not in the question “Why?” but in the question “How?” What the diplomatic business consisted of made no difference to him; but to compose a circular, a memorandum, a report artfully, aptly, and 122

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elegantly—in that he took great pleasure. Bilibin's merits were valued, apart from his written work, also for his skill at moving and speaking in higher spheres. Bilibin liked conversation, just as he liked work, only when the conversation could be elegantly witty. In society he constantly waited for the opportunity to say something remarkable and entered into conversation not otherwise than on that condition. Bilibin's conversation was constantly sprinkled with wittily original and well-turned phrases of general interest. These phrases were manufactured in Bilibin's inner laboratory, as if intentionally of a portable nature, so that society nonentities could readily remember them and pass them on from drawing room to drawing room. And indeed, les mots de Bilibine se colportaient dans les salons de Vienne,* as they say, and often had an influence on so-called important affairs. His thin, drawn, yellowish face was all covered with deep wrinkles, which always looked as neatly and thoroughly washed as one's fingertips after a bath. The movements of these wrinkles constituted the main play of his physiognomy. Now his forehead would wrinkle into wide folds as his eyebrows rose, then his eyebrows would descend and deep wrinkles would form on his cheeks. His small, deep-set eyes always looked out directly and merrily. “Well, now tell us about your exploits,” he said. In a most modest way, not once mentioning himself, Bolkonsky told about the action and his reception by the minister of war. † “Ils m'ont reçu avec ma nouvelle comme un chien dans un jeu de quilles,” he concluded. Bilibin smiled and released the folds of his skin. “Cependant, mon cher,” he said, studying his fingernail from a distance and gathering up the skin over his left eye, “malgré la haute estime que je professe pour le Orthodox Russian armed forces,8 j'avoue que votre victoire n'est pas des plus victorieuses.”‡ He went on in the same way, in French, pronouncing in Russian only those words he wanted to underscore contemptuously. “How, then? With all your mass you fell upon the unfortunate Mortier with his one division, and this Mortier slips between your fingers? Where's the victory?” “All the same, seriously speaking,” replied Prince Andrei, “we can still say without boasting that this is a bit better than Ulm...” “Why didn't you capture us at least one, at least one marshal?” “Because not everything goes as it's supposed to, and with such regularity as on parade. We planned, as I told you, to attack their rear by seven in the morning, but we didn't even get there by five in the afternoon.” “But why didn't you get there at seven in the morning? You had to get there at seven in the morning,” Bilibin said, smiling, “you had to get there at seven in the morning.” “And why didn't you convince Bonaparte through diplomatic channels that he'd better leave Genoa?” Prince Andrei said in the same tone. “I know,” Bilibin interrupted, “you think it's very easy to capture marshals while sitting on a sofa in front of a fireplace. That's true, but even so, why didn't you capture him? And don't be surprised if not only the minister of war, but the most august emperor and king Franz is not made very happy by your victory; nor do I, a miserable secretary of the Russian embassy, feel any particular joy...” * †

Bilibin's sayings were peddled in all the drawing rooms of Vienna. They received me with my news like a dog in a game of ninepins [i.e., like a bull in a china

shop]. ‡ Nevertheless, my dear . . . despite the high esteem I profess for the Orthodox Russian armed forces, I own that your victory is not of the most victorious.

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He looked straight at Prince Andrei and suddenly relaxed all the skin gathered on his forehead. “Now it's my turn to ask you 'why,' my dear,” said Bolkonsky. “I confess to you that I don't understand, maybe there are diplomatic subtleties here that are beyond my feeble mind, but I don't understand: Mack loses a whole army, the archduke Ferdinand and the archduke Karl give no signs of life and make blunder after blunder, Kutuzov alone finally * gains a real victory, destroys the charme of the French, and the minister of war isn't even interested in learning the details!” “Precisely for that reason, my dear. Voyez-vous, mon cher: hurrah for the tsar, for Rus, for the faith! Tout ça est bel et bon,† but what do we—I mean the Austrian court—care about your victories? Bring us some nice little news about a victory of the archduke Karl or Ferdinand—un archiduc vaut l'autre‡ as you know—even over a fire brigade of Bonaparte's, Bonaparte's, and that will be a different story, we'll shoot off all our cannons. Whereas this, as if on purpose, can only exasperate us. The archduke Karl does nothing, the archduke Ferdinand covers himself in shame. You abandon Vienna, you no longer protect it, comme § si vous disiez: God is with us, and God help you and your capital. There was one general we all loved: Schmidt. You put him in the path of a bullet and congratulate us with your victory! ... You must agree that to think up more exasperating news than what you've brought would be impossible. C'est comme un fait exprés, comme un fait exprès.** Besides that, well, if you were to gain a truly brilliant victory, if the archduke Karl were even to gain a victory, what would it change in the general course of affairs? It's too late now, since Vienna's occupied by French troops.” “Occupied? Vienna occupied?” “Not only occupied, but Bonaparte is in Schönbrunn, and the count, our dear Count Vrbna, is going to him for orders.”9†† After the fatigues and impressions of the journey, the reception, and especially after dinner, Bolkonsky felt that he did not quite understand the full significance of the words he had heard. “This morning Count Lichtenfels was here,” Bilibin went on, “and he showed me a letter which described in detail the parade of the French in Vienna, he prince Murat et tout le tremblement....‡‡ You see that your victory doesn't bring much joy and that you can't be received as a savior...” “Really, it's all the same to me, all quite the same!” said Prince Andrei, beginning to realize that his news about the battle at Krems was indeed of little importance in view of such events as the occupation of the capital of Austria. “How is that Vienna's been taken? §§ What about the bridge? And the famous tête de pont, and Prince Auersperg? There was a a rumor among us that Prince Auersperg was defending Vienna,” he said. “Prince Auersperg is standing on this side, our side, and defending us; I suppose he's defending us very poorly, but still he's defending us. But Vienna is on the other side. No, the bridge has not yet been taken and, I hope, will not be taken, because it's mined and there's an order to blow it up. Otherwise we'd have been in the mountains of Bohemia

Magic spell. You see, my dear ... That is all well and good ... ‡ One archduke is as good as another. § As if you were saying. ** It's like a deliberate thing, a deliberate thing. †† As if you were saying. ‡‡ Prince Murat and all the tumult. .. §§ Bridgehead. *

†

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long ago, and you and your army would have spent a bad quarter of an hour between two fires.” “That still doesn't mean the campaign is over,” said Prince Andrei. “But I think it's over. And the bigwigs here think so, too, though they don't dare say it. It will turn out as I said at the beginning of the campaign, that the matter won't be decided by your échauffourée de Durenstein,* nor by gunpowder, but by those who 10† invented gunpowder,” said Bilibin, repeating one of his mots, releasing the skin on his forehead, and pausing. “The only question is what the meeting in Berlin between the emperor Alexander and the king of Prussia will tell us. If Prussia enters the alliance, on forcera la main à l'Autriche,‡ and there will be war. If not, it will only be a matter of 11 arranging where to draw up the preliminary articles for a new Campo Formio.” “But what an extraordinary genius!” Prince Andrei cried suddenly, clenching his small fist and pounding it on the table. “And what luck the man has!” “Buonaparte?” Bilibin said questioningly, wrinkling his forehead and with that letting it be felt that a mot was coming. “Buonaparte?” he said with special emphasis on the u. “I think, however, that now that he's prescribing laws for Austria from Schönbrunn, il faut lui § faire grace de l'u. I decidedly make an innovation and call him Bonaparte tout court.” “No, joking aside,” said Prince Andrei, “do you really think the campaign is over?” “Here's what I think. Austria's been played for a fool, and she's not used to it. And she'll pay it back. She's been played for a fool because, first, the provinces are devastated (on dit, le Orthodox army est terrible pour le pillage), her army is destroyed, her capital has been taken, and all that pour les beaux yeux du his Sardinian majesty. And therefore—entre ** nous, mon cher — I feel instinctively that we're being deceived, I feel instinctively that communications with France and plans for peace, a secret peace, are being concluded 12 separately.” “That can't be!” said Prince Andrei. “It would be too vile.” “Qui vivra verra,”†† said Bilibin, again releasing his skin as a sign that the conversation conversation was over. When Prince Andrei went to the room prepared for him and lay down on the featherbed and fragrant, warmed-up pillows in clean linen—he felt that the battle, the news of which he had brought, was far, far away from him. The Prussian alliance, the treachery of Austria, the new triumph of Bonaparte, the levee, and the parade, and his reception by the emperor Franz the next day preoccupied him. He closed his eyes, but at that same instant in his ears there crackled a cannonade, gunfire, the rattle of carriage wheels, and now again the stretched-out line of musketeers goes down the hill, and the French are shooting, and he feels his heart thrill, and he is riding in front next to Schmidt, and bullets are whistling merrily around him, and he experiences that feeling of the tenfold joy of life, such as he has not experienced since childhood. He woke up ... “Yes, all that happened! ...” he said, smiling happily to himself like a child, and he fell into a sound, youthful sleep.

Skirmish at Diirenstein. Phrases. ‡ It will force Austria's hand. § We must spare him the u . . . simply Bonaparte. ** They say the Orthodox army is a terrible pillager ... just for the sake of... between us, my dear. *

†

††

Time will tell.

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XI The next day he woke up late. Going over his recent impressions, he remembered first of all that he had to present himself to the emperor Franz that day, remembered the minister of war, the courteous Austrian imperial adjutant, Bilibin, and the conversation yesterday evening. Putting on his full dress uniform, which he had not worn in a long time, for his trip to the palace, fresh, animated, and handsome, with his arm in a sling, he went into Bilibin's study. In the study there were four gentlemen from the diplomatic corps. Bolkonsky was acquainted with Prince Ippolit Kuragin, who was a secretary at the embassy; Bilibin introduced him to the others. The gentlemen who frequented Bilibin, young, rich, and merry society people, constituted here, as in Vienna, a separate circle, which Bilibin, who was the head of it, called “ours”—les nôtres. This circle, made up almost exclusively of diplomats, clearly had its own high-society interests, which had nothing in common with war and politics, interests in relations with certain women and in the administrative side of their service. These gentlemen received Prince Andrei into their circle with apparent eagerness, as “theirs” (an honor they accorded to few). Out of courtesy and as a subject for getting into conversation, he was asked several questions about the army and the battle, and the conversation again broke up into inconsequentially merry jokes and gossip. “But it was especially nice,” one said, telling about a fellow diplomat's failure, “it was especially nice that the chancellor told him straight out that his appointment to London was a promotion and that he should look at it as such. Can you picture his face when he heard that? ...” “But what's worst of all, gentlemen—I'm betraying Kuragin to you—is that the man is in misfortune, and this Don Juan, this terrible fellow, is taking advantage of it!” Prince Ippolit was lying in a Voltaire armchair, his legs thrown over the armrest. He laughed. “Parlez-moi de ça,”* he said. “Oh, you Don Juan! Oh, you serpent!” said various voices. “You don't know, Bolkonsky,” Bilibin turned to Prince Andrei, “that all the horrors of the French army (I almost said the Russian army) are nothing compared to what this man has been doing among the women.” “La femme est la compagne de l'homme,”† uttered Prince Ippolit, and he began examining his raised feet through his lorgnette. Bilibin and “ours” burst out laughing, looking Ippolit in the eye. Prince Andrei saw that this Ippolit, of whom he (it had to be admitted) had almost been jealous over his wife, was the buffoon of the company. “No, I must treat you to Kuragin,” Bilibin said softly to Bolkonsky. “He's charming when he argues about politics, you should see such gravity.” He sat beside Ippolit and, gathering the folds of his forehead, began a conversation about politics with him. Prince Andrei and the others stood around them. “Le cabinet de Berlin ne peut pas exprimer un sentiment d'alliance,” Ippolit began, looking around significantly at them all, “sans exprimer ... comme dans sa dernière note ... vous comprenez ... vous comprenez ... et puis si sa Majesté l'Empereur ne déroge pas au principe de notre alliance...” “Attendez, je n'ai pas fini...” he said to Prince Andrei, seizing him by the arm. “Je suppose que l'intervention sera plus forte que la non-intervention. Et...” He paused. “On ne

* †

Just tell me about it. Woman is man's helpmeet.

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pourra pas imputer à la fin de nonrecevoir notre dépêche du 28 novembre. Voilà comment * tout cela finira.” And he let go of Bolkonsky's arm, thus indicating that he was quite finished. †13 “Démosthène, je te reconnais au caillou que tu as caché dans ta bouche d'or!” said Bilibin, whose shock of hair moved on his head with pleasure. They all laughed. Ippolit laughed more than anyone else. He obviously suffered, choked, but was unable to hold back the wild laughter that distended his ever immobile face. “Well, I tell you what, gentlemen,” said Bilibin, “Bolkonsky is a guest in my house and here in Brunn, and I want to treat him, as far as I can, to all the joys of life here. If we were in Vienna, that would be easy; but here, dans ce vilain trou morave it's harder, and I ask you all to help. Il faut lui faire les honneurs de Brunn.‡ You'll take the theater upon yourselves, I'll take society, and you, Ippolit, naturally, the women.” “We must show him Amélie—charming!” said one of “ours,” kissing the tips of his fingers. “Generally, this bloodthirsty soldier,” said Bilibin, “needs to be converted to more humane views.” “It's unlikely that I'll take advantage of your hospitality, gentlemen, and it's now time for me to go,” Bolkonsky said, glancing at his watch. “Where?” “To the emperor.” “Oh! oh! oh!” “Well, good-bye, Bolkonsky! Good-bye, Prince; come early to dinner,” said several voices. “We'll take good care of you.” “Try to praise the order for the delivery of provisions and the itineraries as much as possible to the emperor,” said Bilibin, seeing Bolkonsky off to the front hall. “I wish I could, but I can't, as far as I know,” Bolkonsky replied, smiling. “Well, generally, talk as much as possible. Audiences are his passion; but he neither likes nor is able to talk himself, as you'll see.”

XII At the levee, the emperor Franz merely looked intently into the face of Prince Andrei, who was standing in the place assigned to him among the Austrian officers, and nodded his long head at him. But after the levee, yesterday's imperial adjutant courteously conveyed to Bolkonsky the emperor's wish to grant him an audience. The emperor Franz received him standing in the middle of the room. Before the conversation began, it struck Prince Andrei that the emperor was as if confused, did not know what to say, and blushed. “Tell me, when did the battle begin?” he asked hastily. Prince Andrei replied. After that question, other equally simple questions followed: “Was Kutuzov in good health? How long ago had he left Krems?” and so on. The emperor spoke with such an expression as if his whole goal consisted in asking a certain number of questions. The replies to these questions, as was only too clear, were of no interest to him. “At what time did the battle begin?” asked the emperor. * The Berlin cabinet cannot express a feeling of alliance . . . without expressing ... as in its last note... you understand... you understand... and then if his majesty the emperor does not derogate from the principle of our alliance . . . Wait, I haven't finished ... I suppose that intervention will be stronger than non-intervention. And... One cannot impute our dispatch of 28 November to pointblank refusal. That is how all this will end up. † Demosthenes, I recognize you by the pebble you've hidden in your golden mouth! ‡ In this wretched Moravian hole ... We must do him the honors of Brunn.

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“I am unable to tell your majesty at what time the battle at the front began, but in Diirenstein, where I was, the troops went into attack between five and six o'clock in the evening,” said Bolkonsky, livening up and supposing on this occasion that he would be able to present the truthful description already prepared in his head of all he knew and had seen. But the emperor smiled and interrupted him: “How many miles?” “From where to where, Your Majesty?” “From Dürenstein to Krems.” “Three and a half miles, Your Majesty.” “Have the French abandoned the left bank?” “According to the scouts' reports, the last of them crossed at night on rafts.” “Is there enough forage in Krems?” “Forage was not delivered in the quantities...” The emperor interrupted him: “At what time was General Schmidt killed?” “At seven o'clock, I believe.” “At seven o'clock? Very sad! Very sad!” The emperor said that he thanked him and inclined his head. Prince Andrei went out and was at once surrounded on all sides by courtiers. On all sides affectionate eyes looked at him and affectionate words came to him. Yesterday's imperial adjutant reproached him for not staying in the palace, and offered him his own house. The minister of war came up to congratulate him on the Order of Maria Theresa of the third degree, which the emperor was to bestow on him. The empress's chamberlain invited him to her majesty. The archduchess also wanted to see him. He did not know whom to answer and needed a few seconds to collect his wits. The Russian ambassador took him by the shoulder, led him to the window, and started talking to him. Contrary to what Bilibin had said, the news he brought was received joyfully. A thanksgiving prayer service was ordered. Kutuzov was awarded a Maria Theresa with large cross, and the whole army received rewards. Bolkon-sky received invitations from all sides and had to spend the whole morning paying visits to the high dignitaries of Austria. Having finished his visits past four in the afternoon, mentally composing a letter to his father about the battle and his journey to Briinn, Prince Andrei was returning home to Bilibin's. Before going to Bilibin's, Prince Andrei had gone to a bookstore to stock up on books for the campaign and had spent a long time there. By the porch of the house occupied by Bilibin stood a britzka half filled with things, and Franz, Bilibin's servant, dragging a trunk with difficulty, came out the door. “What's this?” asked Bolkonsky. “Ach, Erlaucht!” said Franz, loading the trunk into the britzka with difficulty. “Wir * ziehen noch weiter. Der Bösewicht ist shon wieder hinter uns her!” “What is it? What?” Prince Andrei kept asking. Bilibin came out to meet Bolkonsky. The usually calm face of Bilibin was troubled. “Non, non, avouez que c'est charmant,” he was saying, “cette histoire du pont de Tabor” (a bridge in Vienna). “Ils l'ont passé sans coup férir.”† Prince Andrei understood nothing. “But where are you coming from that you don't know what every coachman in town already knows?” Ah, Your Excellency! ... We are moving further on. The villain is just behind us! No, no, admit that it's charming ... this story of the bridge of Tabor ... They crossed it without opposition. *

†

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“I'm coming from the archduchess. I didn't hear anything there.” “And you didn't see people packing up everywhere?” “No, I didn't... But what's it all about?” Prince Andrei asked impatiently. “What's it all about? It's about the French having crossed the bridge defended by Auersperg, and the bridge wasn't blown up, so Murat is now racing down the road to Brunn, and they'll be here today or tomorrow.” “What do you mean, here? How is it they didn't blow up the bridge, since it's mined?” “That's what I'm asking. Nobody knows, not even Bonaparte himself.” Bolkonsky shrugged his shoulders. “But if the bridge has been crossed, that means the army is lost: it will be cut off,” he said. “That's just the thing,” answered Bilibin. “Listen. The French enter Vienna, as I said. Everything's fine. The next day, that is, yesterday, the gentlemen marshals, Murat, Lannes, and Belliard, get on their horses and set out for the bridge. (Note that all three are Gascons.) 'Gentlemen,' says one, 'you know that the bridge of Thabor has been mined and countermined, and that in front of it is a terrible tête de pont and fifteen thousand troops, who have been ordered to blow up the bridge and not let us onto it. But it will be pleasing to our sovereign emperor Napoleon if we take this bridge. Let's go the three of us and take the bridge.' 'Let's go,' say the others; and they go and take the bridge, cross it, and are now on this side of the Danube with their whole army, coming against us, against you and your communications.” “Enough joking,” Prince Andrei said sadly and seriously. This news was grievous and at the same time pleasant for Prince Andrei. As soon as he learned that the Russian army was in such a hopeless situation, it occurred to him that it was precisely he who was destined to lead the Russian army out of that situation, that 14 here was that Toulon which would take him out of the ranks of unknown officers and open for him the first path to glory! Listening to Bilibin, he was already considering how, on coming to the army, he would submit an opinion at the military council which alone would save the army, and how he alone would be charged with carrying out this plan. “Enough joking,” he said. “I'm not joking,” Bilibin went on, “nothing is more true or sad. These gentlemen come to the bridge by themselves and wave white handkerchiefs; assure them all that a truce has been called and that they, the marshals, are coming to negotiate with Prince Auersperg. The officer on duty lets them into the tête de pont. They tell him a thousand Gascon absurdities: that the war is over, that the emperor Franz has fixed a meeting with Bonaparte, that they wish to see Prince Auersperg, and so on. The officer sends for Auersperg; these gentlemen embrace the officers, joke, sit on the cannons, and meanwhile a French battalion gets onto the bridge unnoticed, throws the sacks of flammable material into the water, and approaches the tête de pont. Finally, the lieutenant general himself comes, our dear Prince Auersperg von Mautern. 'Our dear enemy! Flower of the Austrian military, hero of the Turkish wars! The hostilities are over, we can shake hands with each other ... The emperor Napoleon is burning with desire to meet Prince Auersperg.' In short, these men aren't Gascons for nothing, they so shower Auersperg with beautiful words, he's so charmed by his quickly established intimacy with the French marshals, so dazzled by the sight of Murat's mantle and ostrich feathers, qu'il n'y voit que du feu, et oublie celui qu'il * devait faire, faire sur l'ennemi.” (Despite the animation of his speech, Bilibin did not forget to pause after this mot, to allow time for it to be appreciated.) “The French battalion rushes into the tête de pont, spikes the cannons, and the bridge is taken. No, but the best thing of all,” he went on, his excitement with his own charming story subsiding, “is that *

That he only sees fire [i.e., is dazzled], and forgets that he ought to fire on the enemy.

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the sergeant in charge of the cannon that was to give the signal to ignite the mines and blow up the bridge, this sergeant, seeing that French troops were running onto the bridge, was about to fire, but Lannes pushed his hand away. The sergeant, who was clearly smarter than his general, goes up to Auersperg and says; 'Prince, you are deceived, the French are here!' Murat sees that the game is up if the sergeant is allowed to speak. With feigned astonishment (a real Gascon), he turns to Auersperg: 'Where is that Austrian discipline the world praises so much,' he says, 'if you allow the lower ranks to speak to you like that.' C'est génial. Le prince Auersperg se pique d'honneur et fait mettre le sergeant aux arrêts. Non, mais avouez que c'est charmant toute cette histoire du pont de Tabor. Ce n'est ni bêtise, ni lâcheté...”*15 † “C'est trahison peut-être,” said Prince Andrei, vividly imagining gray greatcoats, wounds, gunsmoke, the sounds of shooting, and the glory that awaited him... “Non plus. Cela met la cour dans de trop mauvais draps,” Bilibin went on. “Ce n'est ni trahison, ni lâcheté, ni bêtise; c'est comme à Ulm ...” It was as if he fell to pondering, ‡ searching for a phrase: “C'est ... c'est du Mack. Nous somme mackés,” he concluded, feeling that he had uttered a mot, and a fresh mot, a mot that would be repeated. The folds on his forehead, gathered till then, quickly released themselves as a sign of satisfaction, and, smiling slightly, he began to examine his nails. “Where are you going?” he said suddenly, turning to Prince Andrei, who got up and made for his room. “I'm leaving.” “For where?” “The army.” “Why, didn't you want to stay another two days?” “But now I'm leaving at once.” And Prince Andrei, having given orders for his departure, left for his room. “You know what, my dear,” said Bilibin, coming into his room, “I've been thinking about you. Why should you go?” And in proof of the irrefutability of his argument, all the folds fled his face. Prince Andrei looked at his interlocutor questioningly and said nothing. “Why should you go? I know, you think it's your duty to gallop off to the army, now that the army is in danger. I understand that, mon cher, c'est de l'héroisme.” “Not in the least,” said Prince Andrei. “But you are un philosophe, so be one fully, look at things from another angle, and you'll see that your duty is, on the contrary, to protect yourself. Let others, who are good for nothing else, do that. . . You weren't told to come back, and you haven't been dismissed from here; therefore you can stay and come with us wherever our sorry fate takes us. They say they're going to Olmiitz. Now, Olmiitz is a very nice town. And you and I can calmly drive there together in my carriage.” “Stop joking, Bilibin,” said Bolkonsky. “I'm saying it to you sincerely as a friend. Consider. Where will you go now, and what for, when you can stay here? One of two things awaits you” (he gathered the skin over his left temple): “either peace will be concluded before you reach the army, or it will be defeat and disgrace along with the whole of Kutuzov's army.” * It's ingenious. Prince Auersperg's honor is pricked, and he has the sergeant put under arrest. No, but admit that it's charming, this whole story about the bridge of Tabor. It's neither stupidity, nor cowardice ... † It may be treason. ‡ Not that either. It puts the court in too bad a fix . . . It's neither treason, nor cowardice, nor stupidity; it's like at Ulm ... It's ... it's like Mack. We've been macked.

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And Bilibin released the skin, feeling that his dilemma was irrefutable. “I cannot consider that,” Prince Andrei said coldly, and thought: “I'm going in order to save the army.” “Mon cher, vous êtes un héros,” said Bilibin.

XIII That same night, having repectfully taken leave of the minister of war, Bolkon-sky rode off to the army, not knowing himself where he would find it and fearing to be intercepted by the French on his way to Krems. In Brunn all the court population was packing, and the heavy baggage had already been sent to Olmiitz. Near Etzelsdorf Prince Andrei came out on the road along which the Russian army was moving with the greatest haste and in the greatest disorder. The road was so choked with wagons that it was impossible to drive in a carriage. Having taken a horse and a Cossack from the chief of the Cossacks, Prince Andrei, hungry and tired, got ahead of the baggage train, going in search of the commander in chief and his own wagon. The most sinister rumors about the army's situation had reached him on the way, and the sight of the feverishly fleeing army confirmed those rumors. “Cette armée Russe que l'or de l'Angleterre a transportée des extrémités de l'univers, nous allons lui faire éprouver le même sort (le sort de l'armée d'Ulm)”*—he recalled the words of Napoleon's order to his army before the Start of the Campaign, and these words aroused in him at once an astonishment at the genius of the hero, a feeling of offended pride, and a hope of glory. “And what if there's nothing left but to die?” he thought. “Why not, if need be! I'll do it no worse than others.” Prince Andrei looked with scorn at these countless mixed-up detachments, wagons, caissons, artillery, and again wagons, wagons of all possible sorts, trying to get ahead of each other and choking the muddy road three or four abreast. On all sides, behind and before, as far as hearing could reach, there was the noise of wheels, the rumbling of flatbeds, carts, and gun carriages, the thud of hooves, the crack of whips, the shouts of drivers, the cursing of soldiers, orderlies, and officers. On the roadsides one constantly saw now dead horses, skinned or unskinned, now broken-down wagons, near which solitary soldiers sat waiting for something, now soldiers who separated from their detachments and went in groups to the neighboring villages or came from the villages dragging chickens, sheep, hay, or sacks filled with something. On the ascents and descents the crowds became thicker, and there was a ceaseless moan of cries. Soldiers, sunk in mud up to their knees, carried cannon and wagons with their hands; whips lashed, hooves slipped, traces snapped, and chests strained with shouting. The officers in charge of the movement rode up and down among the trains. Their voices were faintly heard amidst the general hubbub, and one could see from their faces that they despaired of the possibility of stopping this disorder. “Voilà le cher Orthodox armed forces,”† thought Bolkonsky, recalling Bilibin's words. Wishing to ask someone among these people where the commander in chief was, he rode up to the baggage train. Directly in front of him rolled a strange one-horse vehicle, evidently constructed by soldiers using homegrown means, something between a cart, a cabriolet, and a carriage. The driver of the vehicle was a soldier, and in it, under a leather top and apron, sat a woman all wrapped in shawls. Prince Andrei rode up and was about to address the soldier with his question when his attention was attracted by the desperate cries of the woman sitting in the little kibitka. The officer in charge of the baggage train * We shall make this Russian army, which the gold of England has brought from the ends of the universe, experience the same fate (the fate of the army of Ulm). † There's our dear Orthodox armed forces.

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was beating the soldier who sat on the box of this little carriage for trying to get ahead of the others, and his lash struck the apron of the vehicle. The woman cried out piercingly. Seeing Prince Andrei, she thrust her head out from under the apron and, waving her thin arms freed from the ruglike shawl, cried: “Adjutant! Mister Adjutant! ... For God's sake ... protect us ... What's it all about? ... I'm the wife of the doctor of the seventh chasseurs ... they won't let us pass; we couldn't keep up, lost our people...” “I'll flatten you like a pancake—turn back!” the officer shouted angrily at the soldier. “Turn back with your trollop!” “Mister Adjutant, protect us. What is it?” cried the doctor's wife. “Kindly let this wagon pass. Don't you see it's a woman?” said Prince Andrei, riding up to the officer. The officer glanced at him and, without replying, turned back to the soldier: “I'll teach you to go ahead ... Back!” “Let them pass, I tell you,” Prince Andrei repeated, pressing his lips. “And who do you think you are?” the officer addressed him with drunken rage. “Who do you think you are? Are you” (he especially emphasized the word you) a superior officer, or what? I'm the superior here, not you. And you, back!” he repeated, “or I'll flatten you like a pancake.” The officer obviously liked the expression. “He told that little adjutant off grandly,” a voice came from behind. Prince Andrei could see that the officer was in the sort of drunken fit of senseless rage when people do not know what they are saying. He could see that his intercession for the doctor's wife in the kibitka was replete with what he feared most in the world, with what is * known as ridicule. But his instinct told him otherwise. Before the officer had time to finish his last words, Prince Andrei, his face disfigured with rage, rode up to him and raised his whip: “Kind-ly-let-them-pass!” The officer waved his hand and hastily rode off. “It's all from them, these staff officers, all this disorder,” he grumbled. “Do it your way.” Prince Andrei, without raising his eyes, hastily rode away from the doctor's wife, who was calling him her savior, and, recalling with disgust the minutest details of this humiliating scene, rode on towards the village where he had been told the commander in chief was. On entering the village, he got off his horse and went to the first house, intending to rest for at least a moment, eat something, and bring clarity to all these insulting, tormenting thoughts. “These are not troops, they're a mob of ruffians,” he was thinking as he went to the window of the first house, when a familiar voice called his name. He turned around. Nesvitsky's handsome face was looking out of a small window. Nesvitsky, chewing something with his juicy mouth and waving his arms, was calling to him. “Bolkonsky, Bolkonsky! Are you deaf, or what? Come quickly,” he shouted. Going into the house, Prince Andrei saw Nesvitsky and another adjutant having something to eat. They hastily turned to Bolkonsky with the question whether he had any fresh news. On their familiar faces Prince Andrei read the expression of alarm and anxiety. This expression was especially noticeable on the always laughing face of Nesvitsky. “Where's the commander in chief?” asked Bolkonsky. “Here, in that house,” the adjutant replied. *

Ridiculousness.

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“Well, so, is it true there's peace and capitulation?” asked Nesvitsky. “I was going to asking you. I know nothing except that I had a hard time getting to you.” “And what's going on with us, brother! Terrible! I confess, brother, we laughed at Mack, and yet it's going much worse for us,” said Nesvitsky. “But sit down, eat something.” “Now, Prince, you'll find no wagons, nothing, and God knows where your Pyotr is,” said the other adjutant. “Where are headquarters?” “We'll spend the night in Znaim.” “What I did was repack everything I need onto two horses,” said Nesvitsky, “and I had excellent packs made for me. I could skip off over the Bohemian Mountains now. It's bad, brother. But you're surely unwell, the way you're shivering?” asked Nesvitsky, noticing how Prince Andrei twitched as if he had touched a Leiden jar.16 “It's nothing,” replied Prince Andrei. He had just recalled his recent encounter with the doctor's wife and the convoy officer. “What is the commander in chief doing here?” he asked. “I understand nothing,” said Nesvitsky. “I understand one thing, that it's all vile, vile, vile,” said Prince Andrei, and he went to the house where the commander in chief was staying. Going past Kutuzov's carriage, the winded riding horses of the suite, and the Cossacks talking loudly among themselves, Prince Andrei came to the entry-way. Kutuzov himself, as Prince Andrei was told, was inside the cottage with Prince Bagration and Weyrother. Weyrother was an Austrian general who had replaced the slain Schmidt. In the entryway, little Kozlovsky was crouching in front of a scribe. The scribe, the cuffs of his tunic turned up, was writing hurriedly on an overturned tub. KozloYsky's face looked exhausted— obviously he also had not slept that night. He glanced at Prince Andrei and did not even nod to him. “Second line... Have you written that?” he went on dictating to the scribe. “The Kievsky grenadiers, the Podolsky...” “Don't rush, Your Honor,” the scribe replied disrespectfully and crossly, looking up at Kozlovsky. From behind the door just then came the animated and displeased voice of Kutuzov, interrupted by another, unknown voice. From the sound of that voice, from the inattention with which Kozlovsky had glanced at him, from the disrespectfulness of the exhausted scribe, from the fact that the scribe and Kozlovsky were sitting so close to the commander in chief on the floor by the tub, and from the fact that the Cossacks who tended the horses were laughing loudly outside the window—from all that Prince Andrei could feel that something grave and unfortunate must be happening. Prince Andrei plied Kozlovsky with insistent questions. “One moment, Prince,” said Kozlovsky. “A disposition for Bagration.” “And capitulation?” “Nothing of the sort; orders have been issued for battle.” Prince Andrei went to the door, behind which voices could be heard. But just as he was about to open the door, the voices in the room fell silent, the door opened by itself, and Kutuzov, with his eagle's beak on his plump face, appeared in the doorway. Prince Andrei was standing directly in front of Kutuzov; but from the expression in the commander in chief's one good eye, it was clear that his thoughts and concerns occupied him so greatly that it was as if they interfered with his vision. He looked directly at his adjutant's face and did not recognize him. “Well, what, are you finished?” he addressed Kozlovsky. 133

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“This second, Your Excellency.” Bagration, of medium height, with a firm and immobile face of the Oriental type, dry, not yet an old man, came out after the commander in chief. “I have the honor of reporting to you,” Prince Andrei repeated quite loudly, handing him an envelope. “Ah, from Vienna? Very well. Later, later!” Kutuzov and Bagration stepped out to the porch. “Well, good-bye, Prince,” he said to Bagration. “Christ be with you. I bless you for a great deed.” Kutuzov's face suddenly softened, and tears welled up in his eyes. He pulled Bagration to him with his left hand, and with his right, which had a ring on it, making an obviously habitual gesture, crossed him and offered him his plump cheek, instead of which Bagration kissed him on the neck. “Christ be with you!” Kutuzov repeated and went to his carriage. “Get in with me,” he said to Bolkonsky. “Your Excellency, I should like to be of use here. Allow me to stay in Prince Bagration's detachment.” “Get in,” said Kutuzov, and noticing that Bolkonsky hung back, said: “I need good officers myself.” They got into the carriage and rode for several minutes in silence. “There is still much before us, much of everything,” he said, with an old man's perceptive expression, as though he understood everything that was going on in Bolkonsky's soul. “If one tenth of his detachment comes back tomorrow, I'll thank God,” Kutuzov added, as if speaking to himself. Prince Andrei looked at Kutuzov and his eyes were involuntarily struck by the carefully washed creases of the scar on Kutuzov's temple, a foot away from him, where the Izmail bullet had pierced his head and put out his eye. “Yes, he has the right to speak so calmly about the deaths of these people!” thought Bolkonsky. “That is why I am asking you to send me to that detachment,” he said. Kutuzov did not reply. He seemed to have forgotten what he had said, and sat deep in thought. After five minutes, rocking smoothly on the soft springs of the carriage, Kutuzov turned to Prince Andrei. There was no trace of emotion on his face. With fine irony he questioned the prince about the details of his meeting with the emperor, about the opinions he had heard at court concerning the action at Krems, and about several women of their mutual acquaintance.

XIV On the first of November Kutuzov received information through one of his scouts that placed the army he commanded in an almost hopeless position. The scout had reported that the French in enormous force, having crossed the bridge in Vienna, were heading towards Kutuzov's line of communications with the troops coming from Russia. If Kutuzov decided to stay in Krems, the one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-man army of Napoleon would cut him off from all communications, surround his exhausted fortythousand-man army, and he would find himself in the position of Mack at Ulm. If Kutuzov decided to abandon the road leading to communications with the troops from Russia, he would have to enter with no road into the unknown territory of the Bohemian Mountains, defending himself from the superior numbers of the enemy, and abandoning any hope of communications with Buxhöwden. If Kutuzov decided to retreat down the road from Krems to Olmütz to unite with the troops from Russia, he would risk being forestalled on that road by the French, who had crossed the bridge in Vienna, and thus being forced to

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accept battle on the march, with all his heavy baggage and transport, and to deal with an enemy that outnumbered him three to one and surrounded him on both sides. Kutuzov chose this last course. The French, as the scout reported, had crossed the bridge in Vienna and by forced marches were making for Znaim, which lay on the path of Kutuzov's retreat, more than sixty miles ahead of him. To reach Znaim before the French meant to gain great hope of saving the army; to let the French forestall them in Znaim meant certainly to subject the whole army to a disgrace similar to that at Ulm, or to total destruction. To forestall the French with his entire army was impossible. The road from Vienna to Znaim was shorter and better than the Russians' road from Krems to Znaim. The night he received this information, Kutuzov sent Bagration's four-thousand-man vanguard to the right over the hills from the Krems-Znaim to the Vienna-Znaim road. Bagration was to make this march without resting, to stop with his face to Vienna and his back to Znaim, and, if he managed to forestall the French, to detain them there as long as he could. Kutuzov himself started out for Znaim with all the heavy baggage. Having gone thirty miles across the hills with hungry, ill-shod soldiers, with no road, on a stormy night, losing a third of his men as stragglers, Bagration came out in Hollabrunn, on the Vienna-Znaim road, several hours ahead of the French, who were approaching Hollabrunn from Vienna. Kutuzov still needed to go a whole twenty-four hours with his baggage train to reach Znaim, and therefore, to save the army, Bagration, with four thousand hungry. exhausted soldiers, had to hold off for twenty-four hours the entire enemy army coming to meet him at Hollabrunn, which was obviously impossible. But a freak of fate made the impossible possible. The success of the trick which gave the Vienna bridge into the hands of the French without a fight prompted Murat to try to trick Kutuzov in the same way. Murat, meeting Bagration's weak detachment on the Znaim road, thought it was the whole of Kutuzov's army. In order to crush this army indubitably, he awaited the troops that lagged behind on the road from Vienna, and with that aim suggested a threeday truce, on condition that neither army change its position or stir from its place. Murat assured them that peace negotiations were already under way and that therefore, to avoid useless bloodshed, he was suggesting a truce. The Austrian general, Count Nostitz, who occupied the advance posts, believed the words of Murat's envoy and fell back, exposing Bagration's detachment. Another envoy rode to the Russian line to announce the same news of peace negotiations and offer the Russian army a three-day truce. Bagration replied that he could neither accept nor reject a truce and sent his adjutant to Kutuzov with a report of the offer made to him. For Kutuzov the truce was the sole means of gaining time, giving Bagration's exhausted detachment some rest, and allowing the train and heavy baggage (whose movement was concealed from the French) to make at least one extra march towards Znaim. The offer of a truce gave the sole and unexpected possibility of saving the army. On receiving this news, Kutuzov immediately sent the adjutant general Wintzingerode, who was attached to him, to the enemy camp. Wintzingerode was not only to accept the truce, but also to offer conditions for capitulation, and meanwhile Kutuzov sent his adjutants back to speed up as much as possible the movement of the whole army's baggage trains along the Krems-Znaim road. Bagration's exhausted, hungry detachment, covering this movement of the baggage trains and the whole army, had alone to remain unmoving before an enemy eight times its strength. Kutuzov's expectations came true both with regard to the fact that the offer of capitulation, without committing them to anything, might gain time for some portion of the baggage train to pass, and with regard to the fact that Murat's mistake was bound to be discovered very quickly. As soon as Bonaparte, who was in Schönbrunn, some fifteen miles 135

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from Hollabrunn, received Murat's communication with the project of a truce and capitulation, he saw through the deception and wrote the following letter to Murat.

Au Prince Murat. Schoenbrunn, 25 brumaire en 1805 à huit heures du matin. Il m'est impossible de trouver des termes pour vous exprimer mon mécontentement. Vous ne commandez que mon avant-garde et vous n'avez pas le droit de faire d'armistice sans mon ordre. Vous me faites perdre le fruit d'une campagne. Rompez l'armistice sur-le-champ et marchez à l'ennemi. Vous lui ferez déclarer, que le général qui a signé cette capitulation, n'avait pas le droit de le faire, qu'il n'y a que l'Empereur de Russie qui ait ce droit. Toutes les fois cependant que l'Empereur de Russie ratifierait la dite convention, je la ratifierai; mais ce n'est q'une ruse. Marchez, détruisez l'armée russe ... vous êtes en position de prendre son bagage et son artillerie. L'aide-de-camp de l'Empereur de Russie est un ... Les officiers ne sont rien quand ils n'ont pas de pouvoirs: celui-ci n'en avait point ... Les Autrichiens se sont laissé jouer pour le passage du pont de Vienne, vous vous laissez jouer par un aide-de-camp de l'Empereur. Napoléon.*17 Bonaparte's adjutant galloped off at full speed with this threatening letter to Murat. Bonaparte himself, not trusting his generals, moved with all his guards to the field of battle, fearing to let the ready victim slip, while Bagration's four-thousand-man division cheerfully lit camphres, dried out, warmed up, cooked kasha for the first time in three days, and not one man in the division knew or thought about what lay ahead of him.

XV It was past three o'clock in the afternoon when Prince Andrei, who had persuaded Kutuzov to grant his request, arrived in Grunt and went to Bagration. Bonaparte's adjutant had not yet reached Murat's division, and the battle had not yet begun. In Bagration's division, nothing was known about the general course of affairs; they talked of peace, but did not believe in its possibility. They talked of battle and also did not believe in the nearness of battle. Bagration, knowing Bolkonsky to be a favorite and trusted adjutant, received him with a superior officer's special distinction and indulgence, explained to him that there would probably be a battle that day or the next, and allowed him full freedom to stay by him during the battle or to supervise the order of retreat in the rear guard, “which was also very important.” “However, there will probably be no action today,” said Bagration, as if to soothe Prince Andrei.

* To Prince Murat. Schönbrunn, 25 Brumaire [15 November], 1805, at eight o'clock a.m. It is impossible for me to find words to express to you my displeasure. You command only my vanguard and you do not have the right to make an armistice without my order. You are making me lose the fruits of a campaign. Break the armistice on the spot and march to the enemy. Declare to him that the general who signed this capitulation did not have the right to make it, that only the Emperor of Russia has that right. Any time, however, that the Emperor of Russia will ratify the said convention, I will ratify it; but it is only a trick. March, destroy the Russian army . . . you are in a position to take their baggage and artillery. The adjutant of the Emperor of Russia is a ... Officers are nothing when they have no power: this one has none ... The Austrians let themselves be fooled in the crossing of the bridge of Vienna, you are letting yourself be fooled by one of the Emperor's adjutants. Napoleon.

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“If he's one of those ordinary staff dandies sent to earn himself a little cross, he can earn it just as well in the rear guard, but if he wants to be with me, let him ... he'll be useful, if he's a brave officer,” thought Bagration. Prince Andrei, having said nothing, asked permission to go around the lines and learn the disposition of the forces, so as to know where to go in case of an errand. The officer on duty in the detachment, a handsome man, foppishly dressed and with a diamond ring on his index finger, who spoke French poorly but eagerly, volunteered to accompany Prince Andrei. On all sides one saw wet, sad-faced officers, who seemed to be looking for something, and soldiers, who were dragging doors, benches, and fences from the village. “You see, Prince, we can't rid ourselves of these folk,” said the staff officer, pointing to them. “The commanders neglect discipline. And here,” he pointed to a sutler's tent, “they crowd in and sit. This morning I drove them all out: look, it's full again. We must ride over, Prince, and scare them away. For a moment.” “Let's go in. I'll have some bread and cheese,” said Prince Andrei, who had not yet had time to eat. “Why didn't you tell me, Prince? I'd have offered you my hospitality.” They dismounted and went into the sutler's tent. Several officers with flushed and languorous faces were sitting at tables eating and drinking. “Well, what is this, gentlemen?” the staff officer said in a tone of reproach, like a man who has already repeated the same thing several times. “You can't absent yourselves like this. The prince ordered that nobody should be found here. Well, take you, Mister Staff Captain,” he addressed a small, dirty, thin artillery officer, who was standing bootless before the entering men (he had given his boots to the sutler to dry), just in his stockings, smiling not quite naturally. “Well, Captain Tushin, aren't you ashamed?” the staff officer went on. “It would seem that you, as an artillerist, ought to set an example, and here you are bootless. They'll sound the alarm, and a fine one you'll be with no boots on.” (The staff officer smiled.) “Kindly go back to your posts, gentlemen—all, all of you,” he added in a superior's tone. Prince Andrei smiled involuntarily, looking at Captain Tushin. Silent and smiling, Tushin shifted from one bare foot to the other, and looked question-ingly with his large, intelligent and kindly eyes first at Prince Andrei, then at the staff officer. “Soldiers say it's nimbler barefoot,” said Captain Tushin with a timorous smile, evidently wishing to turn his awkward position into a joke. But before he finished, he felt that his joke was unsuccessful and had not gone over. He became embarrassed. “Kindly go,” said the staff officer, trying to maintain his seriousness. Prince Andrei looked once more at the little figure of the artillerist. There was something special in it, totally unmilitary, slightly comical, but extremely attractive. The staff officer and Prince Andrei got on their horses and rode further. Having left the village, constantly meeting and going ahead of walking soldiers, officers of various detachments, they saw to their left the reddish, fresh, newly dug clay of the fortification under construction. Several battalions of soldiers in nothing but their shirts, despite the cold wind, were swarming like white ants over this fortification; someone invisible kept shoveling out red clay from behind the rampart. They rode up to the fortification, examined it, and rode on. Just behind the fortification they ran into several dozen soldiers, constantly replacing each other, running down the rampart. They had to hold their noses and set their horses at a trot to get away from that poisoned atmosphere. “Voilà l'agrément des camps, monsieur le prince,”'* said the staff officer on duty. *

That's the pleasure of camp life, Prince.

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They rode to the opposite hill. From this hill they could already see the French. Prince Andrei stopped and began to examine. “Here's where our battery stands,” said the staff officer, indicating the highest point, “the one of that odd bird who was sitting there without boots. You can see everything from there: let's go, Prince.” “I humbly thank you, I'll go by myself now,” said Prince Andrei, wishing to rid himself of the staff officer, “don't trouble yourself, please.” The staff officer stayed behind, and Prince Andrei rode on alone. The further ahead he moved, the closer to the enemy, the more orderly and cheerful the troops looked. The greatest disorder and despondency had been in that baggage train before Znaim, which Prince Andrei had circled around in the morning, and which was some seven miles away from the French. In Grunt there was also a feeling of a certain alarm and fear of something. But the closer Prince Andrei rode to the French line, the more self-assured our troops looked. Lined up in ranks, the soldiers stood in their greatcoats, and a sergeant major and a company commander counted heads, jabbing a finger towards the last soldier in the row and ordering him to raise his hand; scattered all over the area, soldiers were carrying firewood and brushwood and building little lean-tos, laughing merrily and talking among themselves; some sat by the campfires, dressed or naked, drying their shirts and foot cloths, or mending boots and greatcoats, crowding around the cauldrons and cooks. In one company, dinner was ready, and the soldiers looked greedily at the steaming cauldrons, waiting until an officer who was sitting on a log facing his lean-to had tried the kasha brought to him in a wooden bowl by a quartermaster sergeant. In another, more fortunate company, since not all of them had vodka, soldiers crowded around a pockmarked, broad-shouldered sergeant major, who, tipping a keg, poured into the canteen caps that the soldiers held out in turn. The soldiers, with pious faces, brought the caps to their mouths, upended them, and, rinsing their mouths and wiping them on their greatcoat sleeves, walked away from the sergeant major with cheered faces. All the faces were as calm as though everything was happening not in view of the enemy, prior to an action in which at least half the division would be left on the field, but somewhere in their home country, in expectation of a peaceful stay. Having passed the regiment of chasseurs, and through the lines of the Kievsky grenadiers— brave folk, occupied with the same peaceful affairs—Prince Andrei drew near the tall lean-to, unlike the others, of the regimental commander, and came out to a lined-up platoon of grenadiers before whom lay a stripped man. Two soldiers were holding him, and two, swinging supple switches, were beating him rhythmically on his stripped back. The punished man was crying out unnaturally. A fat major walked in front of the line and, paying no attention to the cries, ceaselessly repeated: “It is a disgrace for a soldier to steal, a soldier should be honest, noble, and brave; and if one steals from his comrade, there is no honor in him, he is a scoundrel. More, more!” Again there came the supple strokes and a desperate but feigned cry. “More, more,” repeated the major. A young officer, with an expression of perplexity and suffering on his face, walked away from the punished man, looking questioningly at the passing adjutant. Prince Andrei, having reached the front line, rode along it. Our line and the enemy's stood far from each other on the left and right flanks, but in the center, where the envoys had passed that morning, the lines came so close that the men could see each other's faces and talk to each other. Besides the soldiers who occupied the line at that place, many of the curious stood on both sides and gazed, laughing, at their strange and foreign-looking enemies.

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Since early morning, though it was forbidden to go near the line, the officers had been unable to ward off the curious. The soldiers stationed on the line, like people displaying something rare, no longer looked at the French, but made their observations to those who came and, languishing, waited to be relieved. Prince Andrei stopped to examine the French. “Look, look,” one soldier said to his comrade, pointing to a Russian musketeer who had gone up to the line along with an officer and was speaking rapidly and heatedly with a French grenadier. “See how clever he patters away. Even the Khrenchman can't keep up with him. Now you, Sidorov...” “Wait, listen. That's really clever!” replied Sidorov, who was considered an expert at speaking French. The soldier at whom the laughing men were pointing was Dolokhov. Prince Andrei recognized him and listened to what he was saying. Dolokhov and his company commander had come to the line from the left flank, where their regiment was stationed. “Go on, more, more!” the company commander egged him on, leaning forward and trying not to miss a single incomprehensible word. “Thicker and faster! What's he saying?” Dolokhov did not answer his company commander; he was involved in a heated argument with the French grenadier. They were talking, as they could only have been, about the campaign. The Frenchman, confusing the Austrians with the Russians, insisted that the Russians had surrendered and fled all the way from Ulm. Dolokhov insisted that the Russians had not surrendered, but had beaten the French. “We have orders to drive you away, and that's what we're going to do,” said Dolokhov. “Only try hard not to get captured with all your Cossacks,” said the French grenadier. The French onlookers and listeners laughed. “We'll make you dance, as you danced for Suvorov” (on vous fera danser), said Dolokhov. * “Qu'est-ce qu'il chante?” said one Frenchman. “De l'histoire ancienne,” said a third, realizing that the talk was about former wars. “L'Empereur va lui faire voir à votre Souvara, comme les autres...”† “Bonaparte ...” Dolokhov began, but the Frenchman interrupted him. “There is no Bonaparte. There is the Emperor! Sacré nom ...”‡ he cried angrily. “Devil take your emperor!” And Dolokhov produced a rude soldier's curse and, shouldering his gun, walked off. “Come on, Ivan Lukich,” he said to the company commander. “That's the Khrench for you,” the soldiers started talking in the line. “Now you, Sidorov!” Sidorov winked and, turning to the French, began pouring out a thick patter of incomprehensible words: “Kari, mala, tafa, safi, muter, kaskà,” he pattered, trying to give his voice expressive intonations. “Ho, ho, ho! Ha, ha, ha, ha! Hoo, hoo!” Peals of such healthy and merry guffawing came from among the soldiers that it crossed the line and involuntarily infected the French, after which it seemed they ought quickly to unload their guns, blow up their munitions, and all quickly go back home. But the guns remained loaded, the loopholes in the houses and fortifications looked out just as menacingly, and the unlimbered cannon remained turned against each other just as before. What's he singing? Ancient history ... The Emperor will show your Souvara, just like the others... ‡ In God's name ... *

†

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XVI Having ridden all along the line of troops from the right flank to the left, Prince Andrei went up to the battery, from which, according to the staff officer's words, one could see the whole field. Here he got off his horse and stopped by the last of the four unlimbered cannon. In front of the cannon paced an artillery sentry, who snapped to attention before the officer, but at a sign from him renewed his measured, tedious pacing. Behind the cannon stood their limbers, further behind a hitching rail and the campfires of the artillerists. To the left, not far from the last cannon, there was a newly plaited lean-to from which came the animated voices of the officers, Indeed, from the battery a view opened out of almost the entire disposition of the Russian troops and the greater part of the enemy's. Directly facing the battery, on the crest of the knoll opposite, one could see the village of Schöngraben; to left and right it was possible to make out in three places amidst the smoke of their campfires the masses of the French troops, of whom the greater part were evidently in the village itself and behind the hill. To the left of the village, in the smoke, appeared something resembling a battery, but it was impossible to see it well with the naked eye. Our right flank was disposed on a rather steep elevation, which dominated the positions of the French. On it our infantry was disposed, and at the very end one could see the dragoons. In the center, where Tushin's battery stood, from where Prince Andrei was surveying the position, there was a gently sloping and direct descent and ascent to the stream that separated us from Schöngraben. To the left our troops adjoined a woods, where smoked the campfires of our infantry, who were cutting firewood. The French line was wider than ours, and it was obvious that the French could easily encircle us from both sides. Behind our position was a steep and deep ravine, through which it would be hard for artillery and cavalry to retreat. Prince Andrei, leaning his elbow on the cannon and taking out his notebook, drew a plan of the disposition of the troops for himself. In two places he penciled some notes, intending to tell Bagration about them. He proposed, first, to concentrate all the artillery in the center; second, to transfer the cavalry back to the other side of the ravine. Prince Andrei had been constantly at the commander in chief's side, had followed the movements of masses and the general orders, and had constantly been taken up with historical descriptions of battles, and in this forthcoming action involuntarily considered the future course of the military operations only in general terms. He pictured only major occurrences of the following kind: “If the enemy mounts an attack on the right flank,” he said to himself, “the Kievsky grenadiers and the Podolsky chasseurs will have to hold their positions until reserves from the center reach them. In that case, the dragoons can strike at the flank and overthrow them. In case of an attack on the center, we can deploy the central battery on this elevation, and under its cover pull back the left flank and retreat into the ravine by echelons,” he reasoned to himself... All the while he was in the battery by the cannon, as often happens, he had never stopped hearing the sounds of the officers' voices, talking in the lean-to, but had not understood a single word of what they were saying. Suddenly the sound of voices from the lean-to struck him with such soul-felt tones that he involuntarily began to listen. “No, dear heart,” spoke a pleasant voice, which seemed familiar to Prince Andrei, “I say that if it were possible to know what there will be after death, none of us would be afraid of death. That's so, dear heart.” Another, younger voice interrupted him: “Afraid or not, all the same you can't avoid it.” “But you're still afraid! Eh, you learned people,” said a third, manly voice, interrupting the two others. “That's why you artillerists are so learned, because you can tote everything along with you, both vodka and grub.” And the owner of the manly voice, probably an infantry officer, laughed.

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“But you're still afraid,” the first, familiar voice went on. “Afraid of the unknown, that's what. However much we say that the soul will go to heaven ... we know that there is no heaven, but only atmosphere.”18 Again the manly voice interrupted the artillerist. “Well, let's have some of your herb liqueur, Tushin,” it said. “Ah, it's that same captain who stood without boots in the canteen,” thought Prince Andrei, glad to have identified the pleasant, philosophizing voice. “Herb liqueur's possible,” said Tushin, “but even so, to understand the future life ...” He did not finish. Just then a whistling was heard in the air; closer, closer, faster and louder, louder and faster, and a cannonball, as if not finishing all it had to say, crashed to the ground with inhuman force not far from the lean-to, throwing up a spray of dirt. The earth seemed to gasp from the terrible blow. At that same moment little Tushin came running out of the lean-to ahead of everyone else, his pipe askew in his teeth; his kindly, intelligent face was slightly pale. After him the owner of the manly voice came out, a dashing infantry officer, and ran to his company, buttoning himself up as he ran.

XVII Prince Andrei, mounted up, stayed at the battery, looking at the smoke of the cannon from which the cannonball had come flying. His eyes ran over the vast space. He saw only that the previously immobile masses of the French began to sway, and that there was indeed a battery to the left. The smoke there had not yet dispersed. Two French horsemen, probably adjutants, were galloping over the hill. A small column of the enemy, clearly visible, was moving down the hillside, probably to reinforce the line. The smoke of the first shot had not scattered when another puff appeared, followed by a report. The battle had begun. Prince Andrei turned his horse and rode back to Grunt to look for Prince Bagration. Behind him he heard the cannonade growing louder and heavier. Evidently ours had begun to respond. Below, in the place where the envoys had passed, musketfire was heard. Lemarrois had just come galloping to Murat with the menacing letter from Bonaparte, and the shamed Murat, wishing to smooth over his mistake, at once moved his troops up to the center and around both flanks, hoping before evening and the emperor's arrival to crush the insignificant detachment that stood facing him. “It's begun! Here it is!” thought Prince Andrei, feeling the blood beginning to rush more quickly to his heart. “But where, then? How will my Toulon declare itself?” he thought. Riding among the same companies that had been eating kasha and drinking vodka a quarter of an hour ago, he saw everywhere the same quick movements of soldiers lining up and taking their muskets, and on all faces he recognized the feeling of animation that was in his heart. “It's begun! Here it is! Fearful and merry!” spoke the face of every soldier and officer. Before he reached the still-unfinished fortification, he saw horsemen moving towards him in the evening light of the gray, autumnal day. The foremost, in a felt cloak and peaked astrakhan cap, was riding a white horse. It was Prince Bagration. Prince Andrei stopped to wait for him. Prince Bagration reined in his horse and, recognizing Prince Andrei, nodded to him. He went on looking ahead all the while Prince Andrei was telling him what he had seen. The expression “It's begun! Here it is!” was even on the firm, swarthy face of Prince Bagration, with its half-closed eyes, lackluster as if from want of sleep. Prince Andrei peered into that immobile face with anxious curiosity, and wished to know whether this man thought and felt, and what he thought and felt, at that moment. “Is there anything 141

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there behind that immobile face?” Prince Andrei asked himself, looking at him. Prince Bagration inclined his head as a sign of assent to Prince Andrei's words, and said “Very good” with such an expression as if everything that was taking place and that had been reported to him was precisely what he had already foreseen. Prince Andrei, breathless from fast riding, spoke quickly. Prince Bagration pronounced words especially slowly with his Oriental accent, as if to suggest that they were not hurrying anywhere. Nevertheless, he started his horse at a trot towards Tushin's battery. Prince Andrei and the suite followed behind him. Behind Prince Bagration rode an officer of the suite, the prince's personal adjutant, Zherkov, an orderly officer, the staff officer on duty, on a handsome bobtailed horse, and a state councillor, an auditor, who had asked to come to the battle out of curiosity. The auditor, a plump man with a plump face and a naive smile of joy, looked around him, jolting along on his horse, and made a strange sight in his camlet coat, on a goverment issue saddle, among the hussars, Cossacks, and adjutants. “See, he wants to have a look at a battle,” Zherkov said to Bolkonsky, pointing to the auditor, “but he's got a knot in the pit of his stomach.” “Well, enough from you,” the auditor said with a beaming smile, naive and at the same time sly, as if he was flattered to be the butt of Zherkov's jokes, and as if he was deliberately trying to seem stupider than he really was. “Très drôle, mon monsieur prince,”* said the staff officer on duty. (He remembered that there was some special way of addressing a prince in French, but was unable to get it right.) Just then they were all approaching Tushin's battery, and a cannonball landed in front of them. “What fell?” the auditor asked, smiling naively. “French pancakes,” said Zherkov. “So that's what they hit you with?” asked the auditor. “How frightful!” And he seemed to melt all over with satisfaction. He had barely finished speaking when there again came an unexpected, dreadful whistle, suddenly ending in a thud against something liquid, and f-f-flop—a Cossack, riding a little to the right and behind the auditor, crashed to the ground with his horse. Zherkov and the staff officer on duty crouched low to their saddles and turned their horses away. The auditor stopped in front of the Cossack, examining him with attentive curiosity. The Cossack was dead, the horse was still thrashing. Prince Bagration, narrowing his eyes, turned to look and, seeing the cause of the confusion, looked away indifferently, as if saying: “Is it worth bothering with such stupidities?” He stopped his horse the way a good rider does, bent over a little, and straightened his sword, which had caught in his felt cloak. The sword was an old one, not the kind men wore now. Prince Andrei recalled the story of how Suvorov had made a gift of his sword to Bagration in Italy, and this recollection was especially pleasing to him at that moment. They rode up to the battery near which Bolkonsky had stood when he examined the battlefield. “Whose company?” Prince Bagration asked a fireworker standing by the caissons. He asked, “Whose company?” but essentially he was asking, “You're not scared here, are you?” And the fireworker understood that. “Captain Tushin's, Your Excellency,” the red-haired, freckle-faced fireworker cried out in a merry voice, snapping to attention. “So, so,” said Bagration, calculating something, and he rode past the limbers to the end cannon.

*

Very funny, my Mister Prince.

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While he was on his way there, a shot rang out from that cannon, deafening him and his suite, and in the smoke that suddenly surrounded the cannon one could see the artillerists seize hold of it and, straining hurriedly, pull it back to its former place. The broad-shouldered, enormous soldier number one, with a swab in his hand, his legs spread wide, jumped over to the wheel. Number two was loading a charge into the muzzle with a trembling hand. A small, stooping man, the officer Tushin, stumbling over the trail, ran forward, not noticing the general and peering from under his small hand. “Add two more notches and it'll be just right,” he shouted in a high-pitched voice, trying to give it a dashing sound, which did not go with his little figure. “Number two,” he squeaked. “Smash 'em, Medvedev!” Bagration called to the officer, and Tushin went over to the general, putting three fingers to his visor in a timid and awkward movement, not as military men salute, but as priests bless. Though Tushin's guns were meant to be shooting into the hollow, he was sending fireballs at the village of Schöngraben visible straight ahead, before which large masses of French were moving forward. No one had given Tushin any orders about where to shoot or with what, and, having consulted his sergeant major Zakharchenko, for whom he had great respect, he had decided that it would be good to set fire to the village. “Very good!” Bagration said to the officer's report, and he began to survey the whole battlefield opened out before him, as if calculating something. On the right side the French had come nearest of all. Below the elevation on which the Kievsky regiment stood, in the river hollow, the soul-wrenching roll and crackle of musketfire could be heard, and much further to the right, beyond the dragoons, the officer of the suite pointed out to the prince a column of the French turning our flank. To the left the horizon was limited by the neighboring woods. Prince Bagration ordered two battalions from the center to go as reinforcements to the right. The officer of the suite ventured to observe to the prince that, with those two battalions gone, the cannon would remain exposed. Prince Bagration turned to the officer of the suite and looked at him silently with his lackluster eyes. It seemed to Prince Andrei that the officer of the suite's observation was correct and there was indeed nothing to say. But just then an adjutant came galloping from the regimental commander who was in the hollow with a report that huge masses of the French were coming from below, that the regiment was in disarray and was falling back towards the Kievsky grenadiers. Prince Bagration inclined his head as a sign of assent and approval. He rode to the right at a walk and sent an adjutant to the dragoons with an order to attack the French. But the adjutant sent there came back half an hour later with the report that the regimental commander of the dragoons had already pulled back beyond the ravine, because heavy fire had been directed at him and he had been losing men uselessly, and therefore he had dismounted his riflemen in the woods. “Very good!” said Bagration. As he was riding away from the battery, shots were also heard to the left, in the woods, and as it was too far from the left flank for him to get there in time himself, Prince Bagration sent Zherkov there to tell the senior general, the one who had presented the regiment to Kutuzov in Braunau, to pull back beyond the ravine as quickly as possible, because the right flank would probably be unable to hold the enemy for long. Tushin and the battalion covering him were forgotten. Prince Andrei listened carefully to Prince Bagration's exchanges with the commanders and to the orders he gave, and noticed, to his surprise, that no orders were given, and that Prince Bagration only tried to pretend that all that was done by necessity, chance, or the will of a particular commander, that it was all done, if not on his orders, then in accord with his intentions. Owing to the tact shown by Prince Bagration, Prince Andrei noticed that, in spite of the chance character of events and their independence of the commander's will, his presence accomplished a very great deal. 143

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Commanders who rode up to Prince Bagration with troubled faces became calm, soldiers and officers greeted him merrily and became more animated in his presence, and obviously showed off their courage before him.

XVIII Prince Bagration, having ridden to the highest point on our right flank, started down to where rolling gunfire could be heard and nothing could be seen through the powder smoke. The further they descended into the hollow, the less they could see, but the more they could sense the nearness of the actual battlefield. They began to meet the wounded. One with a bloodied head, hat-less, was being dragged under the arms by two soldiers. He gurgled and spat. The bullet seemed to have hit him in the mouth or the throat. Another came towards them, walking briskly by himself, without his musket, groaning loudly and waving his arm from the fresh pain, while blood poured over his greatcoat as if from a flask. His face showed more fear than suffering. He had been wounded a moment before. Crossing the road, they began a steep descent and on the slope saw several men who were lying down; they met a crowd of soldiers, some of whom were not wounded. The soldiers were walking up the hill, breathing heavily and, though they saw the general, were talking loudly and waving their arms. Ahead, in the smoke, lines of gray greatcoats could now be seen, and an officer, catching sight of Bagration, ran shouting after the soldiers walking in a crowd, demanding that they turn back. Bagration rode up to the lines, along which there was here and there a rapid crackle of gunfire, drowning out talk and shouts of command. The air was completely saturated with powder smoke. The soldiers' faces were all smudged with powder and animated. Some tamped down with ramrods, others primed the pans and took shot from their pouches, still others fired. But who they were firing at could not be seen owing to the smoke, which there was no wind to scatter. Pleasant buzzing and whistling noises were heard rather often. “What's that?” thought Prince Andrei, riding up to the crowd of soldiers. “It can't be a line, because they're in a bunch! It can't be an attack, because they're not moving; it can't be a square: they're not standing right.” A lean, weak-looking old man, a regimental commander, with a pleasant smile, with eyelids that more than half covered his old man's eyes, giving him a meek look, rode up to Prince Bagration and received him as a host receives a welcome guest. He reported to Prince Bagration that the French had mounted a cavalry attack against his regiment, and that, while the attack had been beaten off, the regiment had lost more than half its men. The regimental commander said that the attack had been beaten off, coming up with this military term to describe what had happened in his regiment; but in reality he did not know himself what had happened in that half hour among the troops entrusted to him, and he could not say for certain whether the attack had been beaten off or his regiment had been crushed by the attack. At the start of the action he knew only that cannonballs and shells began flying all over his regiment and hitting people, that someone then shouted, “Cavalry!” and our men began to fire. And they were still firing, no longer at the cavalry, who had disappeared, but at the French infantry who had appeared in the hollow and were shooting at our men. Prince Bagration inclined his head as a sign that this was all exactly as he had wished and supposed. Turning to the adjutant, he ordered him to bring down from the hill two battalions of the sixth chasseurs, which they had just ridden past. Prince Andrei was struck at that moment by the change that came over Prince Bagration's face. His face expressed that concentrated and happy resolve which occurs in a man who is about to throw himself into the water on a hot day and is making a running start. Neither the sleepy, lackluster eyes nor the falsely profound look was there: his round, firm, hawk's eyes looked straight ahead with rapture and a certain disdain, apparently not resting on anything, though his movements were as slow and measured as before.

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The regimental commander turned to Prince Bagration, entreating him to ride back, because here it was too dangerous. “Please, Your Excellency, for God's sake!” he repeated, glancing for confirmation at the officer of the suite, who turned away from him. “There, kindly see!” He drew attention to the bullets that constantly shrieked, sang, and whistled around them. He spoke in the same tone of entreaty and reproach in which a carpenter speaks to a gentleman who has picked up an ax: “We're used to it, but you'll get blisters on your hands.” He spoke as if he himself could not be killed by these bullets, and his halfclosed eyes gave his words a still more persuasive expression. The staff officer joined in the regimental commander's admonitions; but Prince Bagration did not respond to them and merely ordered the men to stop shooting and line up so as to make room for the two expected battalions. While he was speaking, the rising wind, as with an invisible hand, drew from right to left the curtain of smoke that had concealed the hollow, and the hill opposite, with the French moving over it, opened out before them. All eyes were involuntarily turned to this French column that was moving towards them, winding down the terraces of the slope. The soldiers' shaggy hats were already visible; one could already distinguish the officers from the men; one could see their standard fluttering against its staff. “Nice marching,” said someone in Bagration's suite. The head of the column was already down in the hollow. The confrontation was to take place on this side of the slope ... The remnants of our regiment which had been in action, lining up hastily, moved to the right; from behind them, scattering the stragglers, came the two battalions of the sixth chasseurs in good order. They had not yet reached Bagration, but one could already hear the heavy, weighty tread of a whole mass of men marching in step. On the left flank, closest of all to Bagration, marched a company commander, a round-faced, stately man with a stupid, happy expression on his face, the same one who had come running from the lean-to. He was obviously thinking of nothing at that moment but the fine figure he would cut as he marched past his superior. With a parade-like self-satisfaction, he marched lightly on his muscular legs, as if floating, holding himself straight without the least effort, and distinguishing himself by this lightness from the heavy tread of the soldiers who marched in step with him. He carried by his leg an unsheathed, thin, and narrow sword (a curved little sword, not resembling a weapon), and he lithely turned his whole strong body, looking now at his superior, now behind him, without losing step. It seemed that all the forces of his soul were aimed at marching past his superior in the best possible way, and, feeling that he was doing it well, he was happy. “Left... left... left...” he seemed to be saying to himself at every other step, and the wall of soldiers' figures, burdened by packs and muskets, with variously stern faces, moved to this rhythm, as if each of those hundreds of soldiers was mentally saying: “Left... left... left...” at every other step. A fat major, puffing and breaking the step, turned around a bush that was in his way; a lagging soldier, breathless, with a frightened face because of his negligence, trotted to catch up with his company; a cannonball, pushing through the air, flew over the heads of Prince Bagration and his suite, and to the rhythm of “Left... left... left!” struck the column. “Close ranks!” came the dashing voice of the company commander. The soldiers curved around something at the spot where the cannonball had landed, and a decorated old soldier, a sergeant on the flank, after lingering by the dead men, caught up with his line, skipped to change feet, fell into step, and looked back angrily. “Left... left... left...” seemed to be heard through the ominous silence and the monotonous sound of feet simultaneously tramping the ground. “Bravo, lads!” said Prince Bagration. “Glad to be of ... Your Ex-ex-ex-ex-ex! ...” rolled through the ranks. A sullen soldier, marching on the left, turned his eyes to Bagration as he shouted, with an expression that 145

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seemed to say: “We know it ourselves”; another, without looking and as if fearing to be distracted, opened his mouth wide, shouted, and passed by. They were ordered to stop and remove their packs. Bagration rode around the ranks that had gone past him and dismounted. He handed the reins to a Cossack, removed and handed over his felt cloak, stretched his legs, and straightened his peaked cap. The head of the French column, with officers in the fore, appeared from the bottom of the hill. “God be with us!” Bagration said in a firm, audible voice, turned for a moment to the front line, and, swinging his arms slightly, with the awkward gait of a cavalryman, as if working at it, he went forward over the uneven field. Prince Andrei felt that some 19* invincible force was drawing him forward, and he experienced great happiness. The French were already close; walking beside Bagration, Prince Andrei could already make out clearly the bandoliers, the red epaulettes, even the faces of the French. (He clearly saw one old French officer walking uphill with difficulty on splayed feet in gaiters, holding on to bushes.) Prince Bagration gave no new order and went on walking silently in front of the ranks. Suddenly from among the French came the crack of a shot, a second, a third ... and all across the disordered enemy ranks spread smoke and the crackle of gunfire. Several of our men fell, among them the round-faced officer who had marched so cheerfully and diligently. But just as the first shot rang out, Bagration turned around and shouted, “Hurrah!” “Hurra-a-ah!” the prolonged cry spread throughout our line, and, outstripping Prince Bagration and each other, in a disorderly but cheerful and lively crowd, our men ran down the hill after the disordered French.

XIX The attack of the sixth chasseurs secured the retreat of the right flank. In the center, the action of Tushin's forgotten battery, which managed to set fire to Schöngraben, stayed the movement of the French. The French were putting out the fire» which was spread by the wind, and allowing time for retreat. The retreat of the center across the ravine was hasty and noisy; however, the troops, in retreating, did not mix up their detachments. But the left flank, which was simultaneously being attacked and encircled by the superior forces of the French under Lannes, and which consisted of the Azovsky and Podolsky infantry regiments and the Pavlogradsky hussar regiment, was in disorder. Bagration sent Zherkov to the general of the left flank with an order to retreat immediately. Zherkov, not taking his hand from his cap, briskly started his horse and galloped off. But as soon as he left Bagration, his strength failed him. An insurmountable fear came over him, and he was unable to go where there was danger. Having reached the troops of the left flank, he did not ride forward, where the shooting was, but went looking for the general and the officers where they could not be, and therefore did not deliver the order. The command of the left flank belonged, in order of superiority, to the commander of the same regiment that had been presented to Kutuzov at Braunau and in which Dolokhov served as a private. But the command of the extreme left flank was given to the commander of the Pavlogradsky regiment, in which Rostov served, owing to which a * At this point an attack took place of which Thiers says: “Les russes se conduisirent vaillament, et chose rare à la guerre, on vit deux masses d'infanterie marcher resolument l'une contre l'autre sans qu'aucune des deux céda avant d'être abordée” (The Russians behaved valiantly and, a rare thing in war, one saw two masses of infantry marching resolutely against each other with neither of them giving way before they met.) And Napoleon on the island of St. Helena said: “Quelques bataillons russes montrèrent de l'intrépidité” (Some Russian battalions showed dauntlessness). (Tolstoy's note.)

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misunderstanding arose. The two officers were greatly vexed with each other, and at a time when action had long since started on the right flank, and the French had already begun their offensive, the two officers were taken up with an exchange which had the aim of insulting each other. The regiments, cavalry as well as infantry, were very little prepared for the forthcoming action. The men of the regiments, from private to general, were not expecting a battle and were calmly occupied with peaceful matters: feeding horses in the cavalry, gathering firewood in the infantry. “If he, however, is senior to mine in the ranking,” the German hussar colonel said, turning red and addressing an adjutant who had ridden up, “leave him to do as he wants. I my hussars cannot sacrifice. Bugler! Sound the retreat!” But things were becoming urgent. Cannonades and gunfire, blending, rumbled on the right and in the center, and the French greatcoats of Lannes's riflemen were already passing the mill dam and forming up on this side, two musket shots away. The infantry general went up to a horse with his bouncing gait, mounted it, becoming very straight and tall, and rode to the Pavlogradsky commander. The regimental commanders came together with polite bows and with concealed spite in their hearts. “Once again, Colonel,” the general said, “I cannot in any case leave half my men in the woods. I beg you, I beg you,” he repeated, “to take up your position and prepare for the attack.” “And I beg you not to interfieren in vat is not your business,” the colonel replied hotly. “If you vere a cavalryman...” “I am not a cavalryman, Colonel, but I am a Russian general, and if that is not known to you...” “Very much known, Your Excellency,” the colonel suddenly cried, starting his horse and turning a reddish purple. “Be so kind please to go to the front, and you vill see that this position is good für nothing. I do not vant to destroy my regiment für your pleasure.” “You forget yourself, Colonel. I am not concerned with my own pleasure, and I will not allow you to say so.” The general, accepting the colonel's invitation to a tournament of courage, drew himself up and, frowning, rode with him in the direction of the front, as if all their differences had to be resolved there, at the front, amidst the bullets. They reached the front, several bullets flew over them, and they Stopped in silence. There was nothing to look at there, because even from the place where they had been standing before, it had been clear that cavalry could not operate in the bushes and ravines, and that the French were turning their left wing. The general and the colonel stared sternly and significantly at each other, like two cocks preparing to fight, vainly waiting for signs of cowardice. Both passed the examination. Since there was nothing to say, and neither of them wanted to give the other a pretext for claiming he had been the first to run away from the bullets, they would have stood there for a long time, testing each other's courage, if at that moment, in the woods, almost behind them, there had not come a crackle of musket fire and a muffled, merging cry. The French had attacked the soldiers who had gone there for firewood. The hussars could no longer retreat together with the infantry. They were cut off from the path of retreat to the left by the French line. Now, however inconvenient the terrain was, it was necessary to attack in order to cut a path for themselves. The squadron in which Rostov served had just had time to mount its horses when it was halted facing the enemy. Again, as on the Enns bridge, there was no one between the squadron and the enemy, and there lay between them, separating them, that same terrible line of the unknown and of fear, like the line separating the living from the dead. All the men sensed that line, and the question of whether they would or would not cross that line, and how they would cross it, troubled them.

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The colonel rode up to the front, angrily gave some answer to the officers' questions, and, like a man desperately insisting on having his own way, gave some order. No one said anything definite, but the rumor of an attack swept through the squadron. The command to form up was heard, then sabers shrieked as they were drawn from their scabbards. But still no one moved. The troops of the left flank, both infantry and hussars, sensed that their superiors themselves did not know what to do, and the indecisiveness of the superiors communicated itself to the troops. “Hurry up, hurry up,” thought Rostov, sensing that the time had come at last to experience the delight of an attack, of which he had heard so much from his hussar comrades. “God be with us, lads,” Denisov's voice rang out. “At a tghrot, maghrch!” The croups of the horses in the front row moved. Little Rook pulled at the reins and started off himself. To the right Rostov saw the first rows of his hussars, and still further ahead he could see a dark strip, which he could not make out but thought to be the enemy. Shots were fired, but in the distance. “Quicken the tghrot,” came the command, and Rostov felt his Little Rook kick up his rump, switching to a canter. He guessed his movements ahead of time, and felt merrier and merrier. He noticed a solitary tree ahead. This tree was first ahead of him, in the middle of the line that seemed so terrible. But then they crossed that line, and not only was there nothing frightening, but everything became merrier and livelier. “Oh, how I'm going to slash at him,” thought Rostov, gripping the hilt of his saber. “Hur-r-ra-a-ah!” voices droned. “Well, now let anybody at all come along,” thought Rostov, spurring Little Rook and, outstripping the others, sending him into a full gallop. The enemy could already be seen ahead. Suddenly something lashed at the squadron as if with a broad besom. Rostov raised his sword, preparing to strike, but just then the soldier Nikitenko galloped past, leaving him behind, and Rostov felt, as in a dream, that he was still racing on with unnatural speed and at the same time was staying in place. The familiar hussar Bandarchuk galloped towards him from behind and looked at him angrily. Bandarchuk's horse shied, and he swerved around him. “What is it? I'm not moving ahead? I've fallen, I've been killed ...” Rostov asked and answered in the same instant. He was alone now in the middle of the field. Instead of moving horses and hussar backs, he saw the immobile earth and stubble around him. There was warm blood under him. “No, I'm wounded, and my horse has been killed.” Little Rook tried to get up on his forelegs, but fell back, pinning his rider's leg. Blood flowed from the horse's head. The horse thrashed and could not get up. Rostov went to get up and also fell: his pouch caught on the saddle. Where ours were, where the French were— he did not know. There was no one around. Having freed his leg, he got up. “Where, on which side now was that line which had so sharply separated the two armies?” he asked himself, and could not answer. “Has something bad happened to me? There are such cases, and what must be done in such cases?” he asked himself, standing up; and just then he felt that something superfluous was hanging from his numb left arm. His hand was like someone else's. He examined the hand, vainly looking for blood on it. “Well, here are some people,” he thought joyfully, seeing several men running towards him. “They'll help me!” In front of these people ran one in a strange shako and a blue greatcoat, dark, tanned, with a hooked nose. Two more and then many came running behind him. One of them said something strange, non-Russian. Among the men in the back, wearing the same shakos, stood a Russian hussar. He was being held by the arms; behind him they were holding his horse. 148

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“He must be one of ours taken prisoner ... Yes. Can it be they'll take me, too? What men are these?” Rostov kept thinking, not believing his eyes. “Can they be Frenchmen?” He looked at the approaching Frenchmen and, though a moment before he had been galloping only in order to meet these Frenchmen and cut them to pieces, their closeness now seemed so terrible to him that he could not believe his eyes. “Who are they? Why are they running? Can it be they're running to me? Can it be? And why? To kill me? Me, whom everybody loves so?” He remembered his mother's love for him, his family's, his friends', and the enemy's intention to kill him seemed impossible. “But maybe even—to kill me!” He stood for more than ten seconds without moving from the spot or understanding his situation. The first Frenchman with the hooked nose came so close that the expression on his face could already be seen. And the flushed alien physiognomy of this man who, with lowered bayonet, holding his breath, was running lightly towards him, frightened Rostov. He seized his pistol and, instead of firing it, threw it at the Frenchman, and ran for the bushes as fast as he could. He ran not with the feeling of doubt and conflict with which he had gone to the Enns bridge, but with the feeling of a hare escaping from hounds. One undivided feeling of fear for his young, happy life possessed his entire being. Quickly leaping over the hedges, with that swiftness with which he had run playing tag, he flew across the field, turning his pale, kind young face back from time to time, and a chill of terror ran down his spine. “No, it's better not to look,” he thought, but, running up to the bushes, he turned once more. The Frenchmen lagged behind, and even as he looked back, the front one had just changed his trot to a walk and, turning around, shouted something loudly to his comrade behind him. Rostov stopped. “Something must be wrong,” he thought, “it's impossible that they should want to kill me.” And meanwhile his left arm was as heavy as though a twenty-pound weight was hanging from it. He could not run any further. The Frenchman also stopped and took aim. Rostov closed his eyes and crouched down. One, two bullets flew whistling past him. He gathered his last strength, held on to his left arm with his right hand, and ran to the bushes. In the bushes there were Russian riflemen.

XX The infantry regiments, caught unawares in the woods, ran out of the woods, and, companies mixing with other companies, retreated in disordered crowds. One soldier uttered in fear the words: “Cut off!”—senseless and terrible in time of war—and the words, together with the fear, communicated themselves to the whole mass. “We're surrounded! Cut off! Lost!” cried the voices of running men. The regimental commander, the moment he heard shooting and cries behind him, knew that something terrible had happened to his regiment, and the thought that he, an exemplary officer, with many years of service, to blame for nothing, might be blamed before his superiors for negligence or inefficiency, struck him so much that, at that same moment, forgetting both the disobedient cavalry colonel and his own dignity as a general, and above all totally forgetting danger and the sense of self-preservation, he gripped the pommel, spurred his horse, and galloped off to his regiment under a hail of bullets that poured down on but luckily missed him. He wanted one thing: to find out what was going on, and help to rectify at all costs any error, if there was one, on his part, so that he, an exemplary officer, with twenty-two years of service, and never reprimanded for anything, would not be blamed for it. Having galloped luckily through the French, he came to the field beyond the woods through which our men were running and, disobeying commands, heading down the hill. That moment of moral hesitation came which decides the fate of battles: would these disorderly crowds of soldiers heed the voice of their commander, or look at him and go on running? Despite the desperate shouts of the regimental commander, formerly so terrible 149

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for the soldiers, despite the furious, crimson face of the regimental commander, who no longer resembled himself, and the waving of his sword, the soldiers went on running, talking, firing into the air, and not listening to his commands. The moral hesitation that decides the fate of battles was obviously being resolved in favor of fear. The general began to choke from shouting and powder smoke, and stopped in despair. All seemed lost, but at that moment the French, who had been advancing upon our men, suddenly, for no visible reason, ran back, disappeared from the edge of the woods, and in the woods Russian riflemen appeared. This was Timokhin's company, which alone had kept its order in the woods and, having hidden in a ditch nearby, had unexpectedly attacked the French. Timokhin had fallen upon the French with such a desperate cry and such insane and drunken determination, running at the enemy with nothing but a little sword, that the French, having no time to recover, threw down their arms and fled. Dolokhov, who was running beside Timokhin, killed one Frenchman pointblank and was the first to take a surrendering officer by the collar. The fleeing men returned, the battalions formed up, and the French, who had divided the troops of the left flank in two, were momentarily pressed back. The reserve units had time to join in, and the fleeing soldiers stopped. The regimental commander was standing by the bridge with Major Ekono-mov, letting the retreating companies pass by him, when a soldier came up to him, took hold of his stirrup, and almost leaned against him. The soldier was wearing a greatcoat of bluish factory broadcloth, he had no pack or shako, his head was bandaged, and there was a French ammunition pouch slung over his shoulder. In his hand he was holding an officer's sword. The soldier was pale, his blue eyes looked insolently into the regimental commander's face, and his mouth smiled. Though the regimental commander was busy giving orders to Major Ekonomov, he could not help paying attention to this soldier. “Your Excellency, here are two trophies,” said Dolokhov, pointing to the French sword and pouch. “I captured an officer. I stopped the company.” Dolokhov was breathing heavily from fatigue; he spoke with pauses. “The whole company can testify. I ask you to remember, Your Excellency!” “Very well, very well,” said the regimental commander, and he turned to Major Ekonomov. But Dolokhov did not go away; he untied the handkerchief, pulled it off, and showed the clotted blood on his head. “A bayonet wound. I stayed at the front. Remember, Your Excellency.” Tushin's battery was forgotten, and only at the very end of the action did Prince Bagration, still hearing cannon fire from the center, send the staff officer on duty there and then Prince Andrei, to order the battery to retreat as quickly as possible. The covering troops stationed next to Tushin's cannon had left on somebody's order in the middle of the action; but the battery went on firing and was not taken by the French only because the enemy could not suppose that such bold firing was coming from four unprotected cannon. On the contrary, from the energetic operation of the battery, they supposed that the main Russian forces were concentrated there in the center, and they tried twice to attack that point, and were driven off both times by the canister fire of the four cannon standing solitarily on the elevation. Soon after Prince Bagration's departure, Tushin managed to set fire to Schöngraben. “Look, they're scurrying around! It's burning! Look at the smoke! Fine work! Grand! What smoke, what smoke!” said the crews, growing animated. Without any order, all the cannon were turned in the direction of the fire. As if egging it on, the soldiers kept crying at each shot: “Fine work! That's the way! Just look ... Grand!” The fire, borne by the wind, spread quickly. The French columns that had moved

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out of the village went back, but, as if in punishment for this failure, the enemy set up ten guns to the right of the village and began firing them at Tushin. Owing to the childlike joy aroused by the fire, and the excitement of their successful shooting at the French, our artillerists noticed this battery only when two cannonballs and then four more landed among the guns, and one brought down two horses and another tore the leg off a caisson master. The animation, once established, did not weaken, however, but only changed in mood. The horses were replaced by others from spare carriages, the wounded were removed, and the four guns were turned against the tencannon battery. An officer, Tushin's comrade, had been killed at the beginning of the action, and in the course of an hour seventeen out of the forty men of the gun crews had been eliminated, yet the artillerists were still just as merry and animated. Twice they noticed that the French had appeared below, close to them, and then they fired on them with canister shot. The small man with weak, awkward movements constantly asked his orderly to give him another little pipeful for that, as he put it, and spilling fire from it, ran forward and looked at the French from under his small hand. “Smash 'em, lads!” he kept saying and would seize the guns by the wheel and unscrew the screws himself. Amidst the smoke, deafened by the ceaseless firing, which made him jump each time, Tushin, without relinquishing his nose-warmer, ran from one gun to the other, now taking aim, now counting the charges, now ordering the dead and wounded horses to be changed and reharnessed, and shouting all the while in his weak, high, irresolute voice. His face was growing more and more animated. Only when people were killed or wounded, he winced and, turning away from the dead man, shouted angrily at his crew, who, as always, were slow to pick up a wounded man or a body. His soldiers, for the most part fine, handsome fellows (two heads taller and twice as broad as their officer, as always in a battery company), all looked to their commander, like children in a difficult situation, and the expression on his face was inevitably mirrored on theirs. As a result of the dreadful rumbling, the noise, the necessity for attention and activity, Tushin did not experience the slightest unpleasant feeling of fear, and the thought that he could be killed or painfully wounded did not occur to him. On the contrary, he felt ever merrier and merrier. It seemed to him that the moment when he saw the enemy and fired the first shot was already very long ago, maybe even yesterday, and that the spot on the field where he stood was a long-familiar and dear place to him. Though he remembered everything, considered everything, did everything the best officer could do in his position, he was in a state similar to feverish delirium or to that of a drunken man. From the deafening noise of his guns on all sides, from the whistling and thud of the enemy's shells, from the sight of the sweaty, flushed crews hustling about the guns, from the sight of the blood of men and horses, from the sight of the little puffs of smoke on the enemy's side (after each of which a cannon-ball came flying and hit the ground, a man, a cannon, or a horse)—owing to the sight of all these things, there was established in his head a fantastic world of his own, which made up his pleasure at that moment. In his imagination, the enemy's cannon were not cannon but pipes, from which an invisible smoker released an occasional puff of smoke. “Look, he's puffing away again,” Tushin said to himself in a whisper, as a puff of smoke leaped from the hillside and was borne leftwards in a strip by the wind, “now wait for the ball—and send it back.” “What orders, Your Honor?” asked the fireworker, who was standing close to him and heard him mutter something. “Nothing... a shell...” he replied.

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“Now for our Matvevna,” he said to himself. In his imagination, Matvevna was the big cannon at the end, of ancient casting. The French looked like ants around their guns. A handsome man and a drunkard, the number one at the second gun was known in his world as uncle; Tushin looked at him more often than at the others and rejoiced at his every movement. The sound of musket fire at the foot of the hill, now dying down, now intensifying again, seemed to him like someone's breathing. He listened to the fading and flaring up of these sounds. “Hah, breathing again, breathing,” he said to himself. He pictured himself as of enormous size, a mighty man, flinging cannonballs at the French with both hands. “Well, Matvevna, old girl, don't let us down!” he said, moving away from the gun, when a strange, unfamiliar voice rang out over his head. “Captain Tushin! Captain!” Tushin turned around, frightened. It was the same staff officer who had driven him out of Grunt. He was shouting at him in a breathless voice: “What, have you lost your mind? You've been ordered twice to retreat, but you...” “Well, what are they getting at me for? ...” Tushin thought to himself, looking fearfully at his superior. “I... nothing ...” he said, putting two fingers to his visor. “I...” But the colonel did not finish everything he wanted to say. A cannonball flew close to him and made him duck and crouch down on his horse. He fell silent and was about to say something more when another cannonball stopped him. He turned his horse and galloped away. “Retreat! Everybody retreat!” he called from the distance. The soldiers laughed. A moment later an adjutant arrived with the same order. This was Prince Andrei. The first thing he saw on riding out into the space occupied by Tushin's cannon was an unharnessed horse with a shattered leg that was whinnying near the harnessed horses. Blood was pouring from its leg as from a spout. Among the limbers several men lay dead. One cannonball after another flew over him as he rode on, and he felt a nervous shiver run down his spine. But the thought alone that he was afraid picked him up again. “I can't be afraid,” he thought and slowly dismounted among the cannon. He delivered the order and did not leave the battlefield. He decided that the guns would leave the position and be taken away in his presence. Together with Tushin, stepping over the bodies and under the dreadful fire of the French, he got busy with removing the guns. “Another superior just came, and he turned tail quickly,” the fireworker said to Prince Andrei, “not like Your Honor.” Prince Andrei said nothing to Tushin. The two men were so busy that they seemed not even to see each other. Having limbered up the two remaining guns of the four (one smashed cannon and a unicorn20 were abandoned), Prince Andrei rode up to Tushin. “Well, good-bye,” said Prince Andrei, offering his hand to Tushin. “Good-bye, dear heart,” said Tushin, “you good soul! Good-bye, dear heart,” Tushin said with tears, which for some reason suddenly came to his eyes.

XXI The wind grew still, black clouds hung low over the place of battle, merging on the horizon with powder smoke. It was getting dark, and the glow of the fire showed more clearly in two places. The cannonade became weaker, but the crackle of gunfire behind and to the right was heard more often and close. As soon as Tushin with his guns, driving around or over the wounded, came out from under fire and descended into the ravine, he met the superiors and adjutants, among whom were the staff officer and Zherkov, who had 152

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been sent twice and had twice failed to reach Tushin's battery. All of them, interrupting each other, gave and conveyed orders of how and where to go, and reproached and reprimanded him. Tushin had no orders to give and rode silently behind them on his artillery nag, fearing to speak, because he was ready at every word to burst into tears, not knowing why himself. Though the order was to abandon the wounded, many of them dragged after the troops, asking to be put on the guns. The dashing infantry officer who had run out of Tushin's lean-to before the battle was put on Matvevna's carriage, a bullet in his stomach. At the foot of the hill a pale hussar junker, holding one arm with his other hand, came up to Tushin and asked for a seat. “Captain, for God's sake, I've bruised my arm,” he said timidly. “For God's sake, I can't walk. For God's sake!” It was clear that this junker had already asked for a seat more than once elsewhere and everywhere had been refused. He asked in an irresolute and pitiful voice. “Tell them to give me a seat, for God's sake.” “Give him a seat, give him a seat,” said Tushin. “You, uncle, spread a greatcoat under him,” he turned to his favorite soldier. “And where's the wounded officer?” “We unloaded him, he died,” someone answered. “Give this one a seat. Sit down, my dear, sit down. Spread the greatcoat under him, Antonov.” The junker was Rostov. He was holding one arm with the other hand, was pale, and his lower jaw was trembling feverishly. He was seated on Matvevna, the same cannon from which they had unloaded the dead officer. The greatcoat spread under him had blood on it, which stained Rostov's breeches and hands. “What, are you wounded, dear heart?” asked Tushin, coming to the cannon on which Rostov was sitting. “No, braised.” “Why is there blood on the side plate?” asked Tushin. “That officer bloodied it, Your Honor,” the artillerist replied, wiping the blood with the sleeve of his greatcoat and as if apologizing for the unclean state the gun was in. They were barely able, with the help of the infantry, to get the guns up the hill, and having reached the village of Guntersdorf, they halted. It grew so dark that it was impossible to make out the soldiers' uniforms from ten paces away, and the crossfire began to die down. Suddenly, close by on the right-hand side, shouts and gunfire were heard again. Shots flashed in the darkness. This was the last attack of the French, which was being fought off by soldiers sheltering in the village houses. All rushed out of the village again, but Tushin's guns could not move, and the artillerists, Tushin, and the junker silently looked at each other, awaiting their fate. The crossfire began to die down, and soldiers, talking animatedly, poured out of a side street. “Unhurt, Petrov?” asked one. “We roasted 'em, brother. They won't try that again,” said another. “Couldn't see a thing. What a roasting they gave their own! Couldn't see, it's so dark, brother. Got anything to drink?” The French had been beaten off for the last time. And again, in total darkness, Tushin's guns, as if framed by the humming infantry, moved on somewhere. It was as if an invisible, gloomy river were flowing in the darkness, all in one direction, with a hum of whispers, talk, and the sounds of hooves and wheels. In the general hum, the groans and voices of the wounded sounded most clearly of all in the gloom of the night. Their groans seemed to fill all the gloom surrounding the troops. Their groans and the gloom of that night were one and the same. After some time there was a stir in the moving crowd. Someone with a suite rode by on a white horse and said something as he rode by. 153

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“What did he say? Where to now? A halt., or what? Did he thank us, or what?” eager questions came from all sides, and the entire moving mass began to push upon itself (evidently those in front had stopped), and a rumor spread that there was an order to halt. They all halted where they were, in the middle of the muddy road. Fires were lit and the talk became more audible. Captain Tushin, having given orders to his company, sent one of the soldiers to look for a dressing station or a doctor for the junker and sat down by the fire the soldiers had started on the road. Rostov also dragged himself to the fire. A feverish trembling from pain, cold, and dampness shook his whole body. Sleep was coming over him irresistibly, yet he could not fall asleep from the tormenting pain in his arm, which ached and found no comfortable position. Now he closed his eyes, then he gazed at the fire, which seemed a hot red to him, then at the stooping, weak little figure of Tushin, who was sitting next to him Turkish fashion. Tushin's large, kind, and intelligent eyes were directed at him with compassion and commiseration. He saw that Tushin wanted with all his heart to help him in some way and could not. On all sides one could hear the footsteps and talk of the infantry walking, driving, and settling themselves around. The sounds of voices, footsteps, and horses' hooves treading in the mud, the crackling of firewood far and near merged into one rippling hum. Now it was not, as before, an invisible river flowing in the darkness, but like a gloomy sea subsiding and quivering after a storm. Rostov mindlessly watched and listened to what was happening before him and around him. An infantryman came up to the fire, squatted down, put his hands to the fire, and turned his face away. “You don't mind, Your Honor?” he said, turning questioningly to Tushin. “I've strayed from my company, Your Honor; I don't know where myself. Worse luck!” Along with the soldier, an infantry officer with a bound cheek came up to the camphre and addressed Tushin, asking him to move the guns a little bit to let his wagon pass. After the company commander, two soldiers ran to the campfire. They fought and cursed terribly, pulling some boot from each other. “Sure you picked it up! What a quick-fingers!” one cried in a hoarse voice. Then came a thin, pale soldier, his neck bandaged with a bloody footcloth, and in an angry voice demanded water from the artillerists. “What, is a man to die like a dog?” he said. Tushin ordered them to give him water. Then a merry soldier ran up, asking for a little fire for the infantry. “Some hot little fire for the infantry! Keep well, dear countrymen, thanks for the fire, we'll pay it back with interest,” he said, carrying the burning brand somewhere into the darkness. After this soldier, four soldiers carrying something heavy on a greatcoat passed by the campfire. One of them tripped. “The devils left firewood on the road,” he growled. “He's dead, why carry him around?” asked one of them. “Eh, you!” And they disappeared into the darkness with their burden. “What? it hurts?” Tushin asked Rostov in a whisper. “Yes.” “The general wants you, Your Honor. He's staying in a cottage here,” said the fireworker, coming up to Tushin. “At once, dear heart.” Tushin got up and, buttoning his greatcoat and smoothing himself out, left the campfire...

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Not far from the artillerists' campfire, in a cottage prepared for him, Prince Bagration was sitting over dinner, talking with some commanders of branches who had gathered with him. There was the little old man with half-closed eyes, greedily gnawing on a lamb bone, and the twenty-two-year irreproachable general, flushed from a glass of vodka and dinner, and the staff officer with the signet ring, and Zherkov, looking around uneasily at them all, and Prince Andrei, pale, with compressed lips and feverishly shining eyes. In the corner of the cottage stood a captured French standard, and the auditor with the naïve face fingered the fabric of the standard and shook his head in perplexity, perhaps because he was indeed interested in the look of the standard, or perhaps because it was hard for him, hungry as he was, to look at the table where there was no place set for him. In the cottage next door was a French colonel, taken prisoner by the dragoons. Our officers clustered around him, studying him. Prince Bagration thanked particular superiors and asked for details about the action and the losses. The regimental commander who had been reviewed at Braunau reported to the prince that, as soon as the action began, he withdrew from the woods, gathered the woodcutters and, letting them pass by him, started a bayonet attack with two battalions and overwhelmed the French. “As soon as I saw that the first battalion was in disorder, Your Excellency, I stood there on the road and thought: 'I'll let them pass and then meet them with ranged fire,' and that's what I did.” The regimental commander had so wanted to do that, he had been so sorry that he had had no time to do it, that it seemed to him that all this was exactly so. And perhaps it really was so? As if one could make out in that confusion what was and was not so? “With that I must observe, Your Excellency,” he went on, remembering Dolokhov's conversation with Kutuzov and his own last encounter with the demoted soldier, “that the demoted private Dolokhov, before my eyes, took a French officer prisoner and particularly distinguished himself.” “And I also saw the attack of the Pavlogradsky hussars, Your Excellency,” interrupted Zherkov, looking around uneasily, though he had not seen any hussars that day, but had only heard about them from an infantry officer. “They broke two squares, Your Excellency.” Some smiled at Zherkov's words, expecting a joke from him as usual; but, noticing that what he said also contributed to the glory of our arms and of that day, they assumed serious expressions, though many knew very well that what Zherkov had said was a lie, with no foundation at all. Prince Bagration turned to the little old colonel. “I thank you all, gentlemen, all the branches acted heroically: infantry, cavalry, and artillery. How is it that two guns in the center were abandoned?” he asked, seeking someone with his eyes. (Prince Bagration did not ask about the guns of the left flank; he already knew that all the cannon there had been abandoned at the very beginning.) “I asked you to go, I believe,” he turned to the staff officer on duty. “One was knocked out,” the staff officer replied, “but I cannot understand about the other. I was there myself all the while and giving orders, and I had only just left... It was hot, to tell the truth,” he added modestly. Someone said that Captain Tushin was there near the village and had already been sent for. “You were there, too,” said Prince Bagration, turning to Prince Andrei. “Of course, we nearly ran into each other,” said the staff officer on duty, smiling pleasantly at Bolkonsky. “I did not have the pleasure of seeing you,” Prince Andrei said coldly and abruptly. They all fell silent. Tushin appeared in the doorway, timidly making his way from behind the generals' backs. Going around the generals in the crowded cottage, embarrassed as usual at the sight 155

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of his superiors, Tushin did not see the staff of the standard and stumbled over it. Several voices laughed. “How is it that a gun was abandoned?” asked Bagration, frowning not so much at the captain as at those who laughed, among whom Zherkov's voice sounded louder than the others. Only now, at the sight of his dread superiors, did Tushin realize in all its horror his guilt and disgrace at having remained alive while losing two guns. He had been so agitated that until that moment he had not managed to think of it. The laughter of the officers threw him off still more. He stood before Bagration with a trembling lower jaw and was barely able to say: “I don't know ... Your Excellency ... I had no men, Your Excellency.” “You could have taken some of the covering troops!” Tushin did not tell him that there were no covering troops, though that was the plain truth. He was afraid to let down another officer that way and silently, with fixed eyes, looked straight into Bagration's face, as a confused student looks into his examiner's eyes. The silence was rather prolonged. Prince Bagration, probably unwilling to be severe, could not find what to say; the rest did not dare mix into the conversation. Prince Andrei looked at Tushin from under his eyebrows, and his fingers twitched nervously. “Your Excellency,” Prince Andrei broke the silence with his sharp voice, “you were pleased to send me to Captain Tushin's battery. I was there and found two-thirds of the men and horses killed, two guns crippled, and no cover at all.” Prince Bagration and Tushin now looked with the same intentness at Bolkonsky, who was speaking with restraint and agitation. “And if Your Excellency will allow me to voice my opinion,” he went on, “we owe the success of the day most of all to the operation of this battery and the heroic endurance of Captain Tushin and his company,” said Prince Andrei and, without waiting for a reply, he got up at once and stepped away from the table. Prince Bagration looked at Tushin and, obviously not wishing to show any mistrust of Bolkonsky's sharp judgment, and at the same time feeling himself unable to believe him fully, inclined his head and told Tushin he could go. Prince Andrei went out after him. “Thank you, dear heart, you rescued me,” Tushin said to him. Prince Andrei looked at Tushin and, saying nothing, walked away. Prince Andrei felt sad and downhearted. All this was so strange, so unlike what he had hoped for. “Who are they? Why are they here? What do they want? And when will it all end?” thought Rostov, looking at the shifting shadows before him. The pain in his arm was becoming more and more tormenting. Sleep drew him irresistibly, red circles danced before his eyes, and the impressions of those voices and those faces and a feeling of loneliness merged with the feeling of pain. It was they, these soldiers, wounded and not wounded—it was they who crushed and weighed down and twisted the sinews and burned the flesh of his racked arm and shoulder. To get rid of them, he closed his eyes. He became oblivious for a moment, but in that brief interval of oblivion he saw a numberless multitude of things in a dream: he saw his mother and her large white hand, saw Sonya's thin little shoulders, Natasha's eyes and laughter, and Denisov with his voice and mustache, and Telyanin, and his whole story with Telyanin and Bogdanych. That whole story was the same as this soldier with the sharp voice, and that whole story and this soldier were what held, crushed, and pulled his arm to one side so painfully and relentlessly. He tried to get away from them, but they would not let go of his shoulder for a moment, for a split second. It would not hurt., it would be well, if they were not pulling on it; but there was no getting rid of them, He opened his eyes and looked up. The black canopy of the night hung three feet above the light from the coals. A dust of falling snow flew through that light. Tushin did not return, the doctor did not come. He was alone, only 156

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some little soldier now sat naked on the other side of the fire, warming his thin, yellow body. “Nobody needs me!” thought Rostov. “There's nobody to help me or pity me. And once I was at home, strong, cheerful, loved.” He sighed and involuntarily groaned as he sighed. “Ouch, it hurts, eh?” the little soldier asked, waving his shirt over the fire and, not waiting for a reply, he grunted and said: “Quite a few folk got damaged today—awful!” Rostov was not listening to the soldier. He looked at the snowflakes dancing above the fire and remembered the Russian winter with a warm, bright house, a fluffy fur coat, swift sleighs, a healthy body, and all the love and care of a family. “And why did I come here?” he wondered. The next day the French did not renew the attack, and the remnant of Bagration's detachment joined Kutuzov's army.

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Part Three I Prince Vassily did not think out his plans. Still less did he think of doing people harm in order to profit from it. He was simply a man of the world, who succeeded in the world and made a habit of that success. According to his circumstances and his intimacy with people, he constantly formed various plans and schemes which he himself was not quite aware of, but which constituted all the interest of his life. He would have not one or two of these plans and schemes going, but dozens, of which some were only beginning to take shape for him, while others were coming to completion, and still others were abolished. He did not say to himself, for instance: “Here is a man who is now in power, I must gain his trust and friendship and through him arrange for myself the payment of a one-time subsidy,” nor did he say to himself: “Here Pierre is rich, I must entice him to marry my daughter and borrow the forty thousand that I need from him”; but let him meet a man in power, and in the same moment his instinct would tell him that the man might be useful, and Prince Vassily would become intimate with him and at the first opportunity, without any preparation, instinctively, would flatter him, behave familiarly, talk about what was needed. He had Pierre at hand in Moscow, and Prince Vassily arranged for him an appointment as gentleman of the bedchamber, which was then equal to the rank of state councillor, and insisted that the young man should go with him to Petersburg and stay in his house. As if absentmindedly and at the same time with an indubitable assurance that it had to be so, Prince Vassily did everything necessary to have Pierre marry his daughter. If Prince Vassily had thought out his plans beforehand, he would not have had such naturalness in his dealings and such simplicity and familiarity in his relations with all people, whether of higher or lower station than himself. Something constantly drew him to people more powerful or richer than he, and he was endowed with the rare art of seizing the precise moment when he should and could make use of people. Pierre, on unexpectedly becoming a rich man and Count Bezukhov, felt himself, after his recent solitary and carefree life, so surrounded, so taken up, that it was only in bed that he managed to remain alone with himself. He had to sign papers, communicate with government offices of whose significance he had no clear notion, ask his chief steward about something, go to his estate near Moscow, and receive a host of persons who formerly did not even care to know of his existence, but who now would be hurt and chagrined if he did not wish to see them. All these various persons—business connections, relations, acquaintances—were equally well and benignly disposed towards the young heir; they were all obviously and indubitably convinced of Pierre's high merits. He so constantly heard the words: “With your extraordinary kindness,” or “With your excellent heart,” or “You yourself, Count, are so pure ...,” or “If he were as intelligent as you are,” and so on, that he was sincerely beginning to believe in his extraordinary kindness and his extraordinary intelligence, the more so because, deep in his heart, it had always seemed to him that he really was very kind and very intelligent. Even people who had formerly been wicked and obviously hostile became affectionate and loving with him. The angry older princess with the long waist and hair slicked down like a doll's, came to Pierre's room after the funeral. Lowering her eyes and blushing constantly, she told him that she was very sorry about the past misunderstandings between them and that she now felt she had no right to ask for anything, except permission, after the blow she had suffered, to stay on for a few weeks in the house in which she had loved so much and sacrificed so much. She could not help herself and wept at these words. Touched to see that this statue-like princess could change so much, Pierre took her by the hand and apologized, not knowing 158

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for what himself. Since that day, the princess had begun to knit a striped scarf for Pierre and was totally changed towards him. “Do it for her, mon cher; after all, she suffered much from the deceased,” Prince Vassily said to him, handing him some paper to sign for the princess's benefit. Prince Vassily had decided that they had to throw this bone, a promissory note for thirty thousand, to the poor princess, so that she would not take it into her head to talk about Prince Vassily's part in the affair of the inlaid portfolio. Pierre had signed the promissory note, and since then the princess had become still kinder. The younger sisters also became affectionate with him, especially the youngest, the pretty one with the little mole, who often confused Pierre with her smiles and her own confusion on seeing him. It seemed so natural to Pierre that everyone should love him, it would have seemed so unnatural if someone did not love him, that he could not help believing in the sincerity of the people around him. Besides, he had no time to ask himself about the sincerity or insincerity of these people. He was constantly busy, he constantly felt himself in a state of mild and merry intoxication. He felt himself the center of some important general movement; felt that something was constantly expected of him; that if he were to fail to do this or that, he would upset many people and deprive them of what they expected, but if he were to do this or that, all would be well—and he did what was demanded of him, but this “well” always remained ahead of him. More than anyone else during this first time, it was Prince Vassily who took possession both of Pierre's affairs and of Pierre himself. Since the death of Count Bezukhov, he never let Pierre out of his hands. Prince Vassily had the look of a man burdened by affairs, weary, exhausted, but finally unable, out of compassion, to leave to the mercies of fate and of swindlers this helpless youth, his friend's son, après tout, and with such an immense fortune. In those few days he spent in Moscow after Count Bezukhov's death, he summoned Pierre to him or went to him himself and prescribed for him what was to be done, in such a tone of weariness and assurance as if he were adding each time: “Vous savez, que je suis accablé d'affaires et que ce n'est pas que par pure charité, que je m'occupe de vous, et puis vous savez bien que ce que je vous propose est la seule chose faisable.”* “Well, my friend, tomorrow we're off at last,” he said to him one day, closing his eyes, fingering Pierre's elbow, and in such a tone as if what he said had been decided between them long, long ago and could not have been decided otherwise. “Tomorrow we're off, I'm giving you a place in my carriage. I'm very glad. We've finished everything that matters here. I should have left long ago. I have received this from the chancellor. I solicited him on your behalf, and you've been enrolled in the diplomatic corps and made a gentleman of the bedchamber. Now the diplomatic path is open to you.” Despite all the force of the weary and assured tone in which these words were uttered, Pierre, who had been thinking for so long about his career, was about to object. But Prince Vassily interrupted him in that cooing, bass-voiced tone which precluded the possibility of interrupting his speech and which he made use of in cases requiring extreme persuasiveness. “Mais, mon cher, I did it for myself, for my conscience, and there's nothing to thank me for. No one ever complained about being loved too much; and besides, you're free, you can drop it tomorrow. You'll see everything for yourself in Petersburg. And it's long since time that you distanced yourself from these terrible memories.” Prince Vassily sighed. * You know that I am overburdened with business and that it is only out of pure charity that I concern myself with you, and then, too, you know very well that what I am proposing to you is the only feasible thing.

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“Yes, yes, dear heart. And let my valet ride in your carriage. Ah, I nearly forgot,” Prince Vassily added, “you know, mon cher, I had some accounts with the deceased, so I'll keep what I received from Ryazan: you don't need it. We'll work it out later.” What Prince Vassily referred to as “received from Ryazan” was several thousand in quittent, which Prince Vassily kept for himself. In Petersburg, just as in Moscow, an atmosphere of affectionate, loving people surrounded Pierre. He could not refuse the post or, rather, the rank (because he did nothing) that Prince Vassily had provided him with, and the acquaintances, invitations, social occupations were so many that Pierre experienced, even more than in Moscow, a feeling of fogginess, hurriedness, and some ever approaching but never attained good. Of his former bachelor company, many were not in Petersburg. The guards had left on campaign, Dolokhov had been demoted, Anatole was in the army in the provinces, Prince Andrei was abroad, and therefore Pierre had no chance either to spend the nights as he had liked to spend them before, or to ease his heart in a friendly conversation with an older, respected friend. All his time was spent on dinners, balls, and mostly at Prince Vassily's—in the company of the old, fat princess, his wife, and the beautiful Hélène. Anna Pavlovna Scherer, like the others, manifested to Pierre the change that had occurred in society's view of him. Formerly, in Anna Pavlovna's presence, Pierre had constantly felt that what he said was improper, tactless, out of place; that his remarks, which seemed clever to him while he was preparing them in his imagination, became stupid as soon as he spoke them aloud, and that, on the contrary, the dullest remarks of Ippolit came out as clever and pleasing. Now everything he said came out as charmant. Even if Anna Pavlovna did not say it, he could see that she wanted to say it and only restrained herself out of respect for his modesty. In the beginning of the winter of 1805-1806, Pierre received the customary pink note from Anna Pavlovna with an invitation, to which was added: “Vous trouverez chez moi la * belle Hélène, qu'on ne se lasse jamais voir.” Reading this passage, Pierre felt for the first time that between him and Hélène some sort of connection had been formed, recognized by other people, and this thought at the same time frightened him, as if an obligation had been laid upon him which he could not fulfill, and also pleased him as an amusing supposition. The soirée at Anna Pavlovna's was the same as the first, only the novelty that Anna Pavlovna was now treating her guests to was not Mortemart, but a diplomat who had come from Berlin and brought the freshest details about the emperor Alexander's visit to Potsdam and the two august friends swearing an indissoluble union in defending the right 1 cause against the enemy of the human race. Pierre was received by Anna Pavlovna with a tinge of sorrow which obviously referred to the fresh loss that had befallen the young man, the death of Count Bezukhov (everyone constantly considered it their duty to convince Pierre that he was very grieved by the death of a father he had hardly known)— and the sorrow was of the same sort as that supreme sorrow which was expressed at the mention of the august empress Maria Feodorovna. Pierre felt flattered by it. Anna Pavlovna arranged the circles in her drawing room with her usual artfulness. The large circle where Prince Vassily and the generals were had use of the diplomat. Another circle was formed by the tea table. Pierre wanted to join the first, but Anna Pavlovna, who was in the excited state of a commander on the battlefield, when thousands of brilliant new thoughts come along which one scarcely has time to bring to fulfullment—Anna Pavlovna, seeing Pierre, touched his sleeve with her finger:

*

You will find with me the beautiful Hélène, whom one never tires of seeing.

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*

“Attendez, j'ai des vues sur vous pour ce soir.” She glanced at Hélène and smiled at her. “Ma bonne Hélène, il faut que vous soyez charitable pour ma pauvre tante, qui a une † adoration pour vous. Allez lui tenir companie pour dix minutes. And so that it won't be too boring for you, here you have the dear count, who will not refuse to follow you.” The beauty went to the aunt, but Anna Pavlovna kept Pierre by her, making it look as though she had to give some last necessary instructions. “She's ravishing, isn't she?” she said to Pierre, pointing to the majestic beauty as she sailed off. “Et quelle tenue!‡ What tact for such a young girl, and what a masterly ability to behave! It comes from the heart. Happy the one to whom she will belong! With her even the most unworldly husband will involuntarily and effortlessly occupy a brilliant place in society. Isn't that so? I only wanted to know your opinion.” And Anna Pavlovna let Pierre go. Pierre was sincere in answering affirmatively Anna Pavlovna's question about the artfulness of Hélène's behavior. If he ever thought about Hélène, he thought precisely about her beauty and that extraordinary, calm ability of hers to be silently dignified in society. The aunt received the two young people in her corner, but, it seemed, wished to hide her adoration of Hélène and rather wished to show her fear before Anna Pavlovna. She glanced at her niece as if asking what she was to do with these people. As she was leaving them, Anna Pavlovna again touched Pierre's sleeve with her finger and said: § “J'espère, que vous ne direz plus qu'on s'ênnui chez moi” —and she glanced at Hélène. Hélène smiled with an air that said she did not allow the possibility that anyone could see her and not feel admiration. The aunt cleared her throat, swallowed her saliva, and said in French that she was very glad to see Hélène; then she turned to Pierre with the same greeting and the same mien. In the middle of the boring and faltering conversation, Hélène glanced at Pierre and smiled at him that serene, beautiful smile which she smiled at everyone. Pierre was so used to that smile, it said so little to him, that he did not pay any attention to it. The aunt was talking just then about a collection of snuffboxes that had belonged to Pierre's late father, Count Bezukhov, and she showed her own snuffbox. Princess Hélène asked to see the portrait of the aunt's husband, which was painted on this snuffbox. “It must be the work of Vinesse,”2 said Pierre, naming a famous miniaturist, leaning towards the table in order to take the snuffbox in his hands, and listening to the conversation at the other table. He got up, wishing to go around, but the aunt handed him the snuffbox right over Hélène, behind her back. Hélène leaned forward so as to make room and, smiling, glanced around. As always at soirées, she was wearing a gown in the fashion of the time, quite open in front and back. Her bust, which had always looked like marble to Pierre, was now such a short distance from him that he could involuntarily make out with his nearsighted eyes the living loveliness of her shoulders and neck, and so close to his lips that he had only to lean forward a little to touch her. He sensed the warmth of her body, the smell of her perfume, and the creaking of her corset as she breathed. He saw not her marble beauty, which made one with her gown, he saw and sensed all the loveliness of her body, which was merely

Wait, I have plans for you this evening. My good Hélène, you must be charitable towards my poor aunt, who adores you. Go and keep her company for ten minutes. ‡ And what bearing! § I hope you won't go on saying that it's boring in my house. *

†

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covered by clothes. And once he had seen it, he could not see otherwise, as we cannot return to a once-exposed deception. She turned, looked straight at him with her shining dark eyes, and smiled. “So you never noticed before how beautiful I am?” Hélène seemed to say. “You never noticed that I am a woman? Yes, I am a woman who could belong to anyone, even you,” said her gaze. And at that moment Pierre felt that Hélène not only could, but must be his wife, that it could not be otherwise. He knew it at that moment as certainly as he would have known it standing at the altar with her. How it would be and when, he did not know; he did not even know whether it would be good (he even felt that it was not good for some reason), but he knew that it would be. Pierre lowered his eyes, raised them again, and wanted to see her once more as a distant, alien beauty, the way he had seen her every day before then; but he could no longer do that. Could not, just as a man who once looked at a stalk of tall grass in the mist and saw it as a tree, can look at the stalk of grass itself and once more see it as a tree. She was terribly close to him. She already had power over him. And there were no longer any obstructions between them, except for the obstruction of his own will. “Bon, je vous laisse dans votre petit coin. Je vois que vous y êtes très bien,”* said the voice of Anna Pavlovna. And Pierre, trying fearfully to recall whether he had done anything reprehensible, blushed and looked around him. It seemed to him that everyone knew what had happened to him as well as he did. A short time later, when he went up to the large circle, Anna Pavlovna said to him: † “On dit que vous embellisez votre maison de Pétersbourg.” (That was true: the architect had said it was needed, and Pierre, not knowing why himself, was redecorating his enormous house in Petersburg.) “C'est bien, mais ne déménagez pas de chez le prince Basile. Il est bon d'avoir un ami comme le prince,” she said, smiling at Prince Vassily. “J'en sais quelque chose. N'est-ce ‡ pas?” And you're still so young. You need advice. You're not angry with me for exercising an old woman's rights?” She paused, as women always pause and wait for something after referring to their age. “If you get married, that's another matter.” And she united them in a single glance. Pierre did not look at Hélène, nor she at him. But she was still just as terribly close to him. He mumbled something and blushed. On returning home, Pierre could not fall asleep for a long time, thinking about what had happened to him. And what had happened to him? Nothing. He had simply realized that a woman he had known as a child, of whom he used to say distractedly, “Yes, goodlooking,” when told that Hélène was a beauty—he had realized that this woman could belong to him. “But she's stupid, I've said myself that she's stupid,” he thought. “This isn't love. On the contrary, there's something vile in the feeling she aroused in me, something forbidden. I've been told that her brother Anatole was in love with her and she with him, and there was a whole story, and that's why Anatole was sent away. Ippolit is her brother. Prince Vassily is her father. It's not good,” he thought; but while he was arguing like that (these arguments were left unfinished), he caught himself smiling and was aware that a whole series of arguments had floated up from behind the others, that he was at the same time thinking about her worthlessness and dreaming of how she would be his wife, how she Good, I'll leave you in your little corner. I see you're doing very well there. They say you're redecorating your house in Petersburg. ‡ That's good, but don't move out of Prince Vassily's. It's good to have a friend like the prince... I know something about it. Isn't that so? *

†

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might come to love him, how she might be quite different, and how everything he had thought and heard about her might be untrue. And again he saw her not as some daughter of Prince Vassily, but saw her whole body, merely covered by a gray dress. “But no, why did this thought not occur to me before?” And again he said to himself that it was impossible, that there would be something vile, unnatural, as it seemed to him, and dishonest in this marriage. He recalled her former words and looks, and the words and looks of those who had seen them together. He recalled the words and looks of Anna Pavlovna when she spoke to him about his house, recalled hundreds of similar hints from Prince Vassily and others, and terror came over him at the thought that he might already have bound himself in some way to go through with something which was obviously not good and which he ought not to do. But while he expressed this realization to himself, on the other side of his soul her image floated up in all its feminine beauty.

II In November of 1805 Prince Vassily was to go to inspect four provinces. He arranged this assignment for himself so as to visit his disordered estates at the same time and, having picked up his son Anatole (where his regiment was stationed), to go with him to see Prince Nikolai Andreevich Bolkonsky, in order to marry his son to the daughter of this rich old man. But before his departure and these new affairs, Prince Vassily had to decide things with Pierre, who of late had indeed been spending whole days at home, that is, at Prince Vassily's, where he lived, and who was ridiculous, agitated, and stupid (as a man in love ought to be) in Hélène's presence, but had still not made a proposal. “Tout ça est bel et bon, mais il faut que ça finisse,”* Prince Vassily said to himself one morning with a sad sigh, conscious that Pierre, who owed so much to him (well, Christ be with him!), was not quite acting properly in this matter. “Youth ... frivolity ... well, God be with him,” thought Prince Vassily, pleasantly aware of his kindness, “mais il faut que ça finisse. The day after tomorrow is Lelya's name day. I'll invite people, and if he doesn't understand what he ought to do, then it will be my business. Yes, my business. I'm a father!” In the month and a half since Anna Pavlovna's soirée, followed by the sleepless, agitated night in which he decided that marriage to Hélène would be a misfortune and that he must avoid her and go away, Pierre, after this decision, did not move out of Prince Vassily's house, and felt with horror that in people's eyes he was becoming more and more bound to her every day, that he simply could not go back to his former view of her, nor could he tear himself away from her, that it would be terrible, but that he would have to bind his fate to hers. He might perhaps have refrained, but not a day passed without Prince Vassily (who rarely held receptions) having a soirée at which Pierre had to be present, if he did not want to spoil the general pleasure and disappoint everyone's expectations. Prince Vassily, in those rare moments when he was at home, would pass by Pierre, pull his hand downwards, distractedly offer him his clean-shaven, wrinkled cheek to kiss, and say either “See you tomorrow,” or “At dinner, otherwise I won't see you,” or “I'm staying for your sake,” and so on, But despite the fact that, when Prince Vassily stayed for Pierre's sake (as he put it), he did not say two words to him, Pierre did not feel himself capable of disappointing his expectations. Every day he said one and the same thing to himself: “I must finally understand her, and find out for myself who she is. Was I mistaken before, or am I mistaken now? No, she's not stupid; no, she's a wonderful girl!” he sometimes said to himself. “She's never mistaken in anything, she never says anything stupid. She speaks little, but what she says is always simple and clear. So she's not stupid. She's never been embarrassed and is not embarrassed now. So she's not a bad woman!” It *

This is all well and good, but it must come to an end.

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often happened when he was with her that he would begin to argue, to think aloud, and she responded to that each time either by a brief but appropriate remark, showing that it did not interest her, or by a silent smile and glance, which showed Pierre her superiority most palpably. She was right in considering all arguments as nonsense compared with that smile. She always addressed him with a joyful, trusting smile, meant for him alone, in which there was something more significant than what was in the general smile that always adorned her face. Pierre knew that everyone was only waiting for him finally to say one word, to cross a certain line, and he knew that sooner or later he would cross it; but some incomprehensible terror seized him at the mere thought of that frightful step. A thousand times in the course of that month and a half, all the while feeling himself drawn more and more into that frightening abyss, Pierre had said to himself: “But what is it? I need resolve. Don't I have any?” He wanted to resolve it, but felt with terror that in this case he lacked the resolve that he knew he had and that indeed was in him. Pierre was one of those people who are strong only when they feel themselves perfectly pure. And since the day when he had been possessed by that feeling of desire which he had experienced over the snuffbox at Anna Pavlovna's, an unconscious feeling of guilt on account of that attraction had paralyzed his resolve. On Hélène's name day a small company of friends and relations—the closest people, as the princess put it—had supper at Prince Vassily's. All these friends and relations had been given the feeling that the name-day girl's lot was to be decided that day. The guests were sitting over supper. Princess Kuragin, a massive, once-beautiful, imposing woman, presided as mistress of the house. On either side of her sat the guests of honor—an old general, his wife, and Anna Pavlovna Scherer; at the end of the table sat the less old and honored guests, and there also, as part of the household, sat Pierre and Hélène—next to each other. Prince Vassily did not eat: he strolled around the table in a merry state of mind, sitting down now with one, now with another of the guests. To each he spoke a casual and agreeable word, except for Pierre and Hélène, whose presence he seemed not to notice. Prince Vassily enlivened everyone. The wax candles burned brightly, the silver and crystal, the ladies' gowns, and the gold and silver epaulettes shone; servants in red kaftans scurried around the table; the sounds of knives, glasses, plates were heard, and the sounds of animated talk in several conversations around that table. An old chamberlain was heard at one end assuring a little old baroness of his ardent love for her, and so, too, was her laughter; at the other end, the story of the unsuccess of some Marya Viktorovna. At the middle of the table Prince Vassily concentrated listeners around himself. He was telling the ladies, with a jocular smile on his lips, about the latest session—on Wednesday—of the state council, at which Sergei Kuzmich Vyazmitinov, the new military governor general of Petersburg, had received and read the then-famous rescript of the sovereign Alexander Pavlovich from the army, in which the sovereign, addressing Sergei Kuzmich, said that he had received declarations of the people's devotion from all sides, and that the declaration from Petersburg was especially pleasing to him, that he was proud of the honor of being the head of such a nation and would try to prove worthy of it. The rescript began with the words: “Sergei Kuzmich! From all sides rumors reach me,” and so on. “So it never went further than 'Sergei Kuzmich'?” one lady asked. “No, no, not a hair's breadth,” Prince Vassily replied, laughing. “'Sergei Kuzmich... from all sides. From all sides, Sergei Kuzmich.' Poor Vyazmitinov just couldn't get any further. He took up the letter several more times, but as soon as he said 'Sergei'... sobs ... 'Ku ... zmi. . . ch'—tears ... and 'from all sides' was drowned in weeping, and he couldn't go on. And again his handkerchief, and again 'Sergei Kuzmich, from all sides,' and tears ... so that they finally asked someone else to read it.” 164

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“‘Kuzmich ... from all sides ...' and tears,” someone repeated, laughing. “Don't be wicked,” Anna Pavlovna said from the other end of the table, shaking her finger, “c'est un si brave et excellent homme notre bon Vias-mitinoff...”* Everyone laughed a lot. At the upper, honored end of the table, everyone seemed to be merry and under the influence of the most varied, lively moods; only Pierre and Hélène silently sat next to each other almost at the lowest end of the table; on both their faces there was a restrained, radiant smile that had nothing to do with Sergei Kuzmich—a smile of bashfulness about their own feelings. Whatever the others said, however they laughed and joked together, whatever the appetite with which they savored the Rhein wine, the sauté, the ice cream, however they avoided glancing at this couple, however indifferent or inattentive to them they seemed, the feeling for some reason was, from the occasional glances cast at them, that the anecdote about Sergei Kuzmich, and the laughter, and the food were all a pretense, and all the power of attention of the entire company was directed only at this couple—Pierre and Hélène. Prince Vassily imitated Sergei Kuzmich's sobbing, and at the same time shot a glance at his daughter; and all the while he laughed, the expression on his face said: “Yes, yes, it's all going well; tonight it will all be decided.” Anna Pavlovna shook her finger at him for notre bon Viasmitinoff, but in her eyes, which flashed momentarily at Pierre, Prince Vassily read congratulations on his future son-in-law and his daughter's happiness. The old princess, offering wine with a sad sigh to the lady next to her and glancing angrily at her daughter, seemed to be saying with that sigh: “Yes, now you and I have nothing left but to drink sweet wine, my dear; now it's time for these young ones to be so boldly and defiantly happy.” “And what stupidity all this that I'm going on about is, as if it interests me,” thought the diplomat, glancing at the happy faces of the lovers. “That is happiness!” Amidst the insignificant trifles, the artificial interests, that bound this company together, there turned up the simple feeling of attraction of a handsome and healthy young man and woman for each other. And this human feeling overwhelmed everything and soared above all this artifical babble. The jokes were not funny, the news was not interesting, the animation was obviously feigned. Not only they, but the footmen serving at the table seemed to feel the same and forgot the order of the service, gazing at the beauty Hélène with her radiant face, and at the red, fat, happy, and uneasy face of Pierre. It seemed that even the light of the candles was concentrated only on those two happy faces. Pierre felt that he was the center of everything, and this position delighted and embarrassed him. He found himself in the state of a man immersed in some occupation. He neither saw, nor understood, nor heard anything clearly. Only rarely, unexpectedly, did fragmentary thoughts and impressions of reality flash in his soul. “So it's all over!” he thought. “And how did it all happen? So quickly! Now I know that, not for her alone, not for me alone, but for all of them, this inevitably had to come about. They all expect this so much, they're so certain it will be, that I simply cannot disappoint them. But how will it be? I don't know; but it will be, it will be without fail!” thought Pierre, glancing at those shoulders gleaming just near his eyes. Then he suddenly became ashamed of something. He felt embarrassed that he alone was taking up everyone's attention, that he was a lucky fellow in the eyes of others—he, with his unattractive face, some sort of Paris taking possession of Helen. “But surely it always happens that way and must be so,” he comforted himself. “And, anyhow, what did I do for it? When did it begin? I left Moscow along with Prince Vassily. There wasn't anything yet. And then, why shouldn't I have stayed with him? Then I played cards with her, picked up her reticule, went for a ride with her. When did it begin, when did it all happen?” And here he is sitting next to her, a fiancé; he hears, sees, feels her closeness, her *

He's such a fine and excellent man, our good Vyazmitinov.

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breathing, her movements, her beauty. Now it suddenly seems to him that it is not she but he himself who is so extraordinarily beautiful, that that is why they are looking at him that way, and he, happy in the general astonishment, draws himself up, raises his head, and rejoices at his happiness. Suddenly some voice, someone's familiar voice, is heard and says something to him yet again. But Pierre is so taken up that he does not understand what is said to him. “I'm asking you when you got a letter from Bolkonsky,” Prince Vassily repeats for the third time. “You're so distracted, my dear.” Prince Vassily smiles, and Pierre sees that everyone, everyone is smiling at him and at Hélène. “Well, so what if you all know,” Pierre says to himself. “Well, so what? it's true,” and he smiles his meek, childlike smile, and Hélène smiles, too. “When did you get it? From Olmiitz?” Prince Vassily repeats, as if he needs to know in order to settle an argument. “Can one really speak and think about such trifles?” thinks Pierre. “Yes, from Olmiitz,” he answers with a sigh. After supper Pierre led his lady after the others to the drawing room. The guests began to depart, and some left without saying good-bye to Hélène. As if not wishing to tear her away from her serious occupation, some approached for a moment and left quickly, forbidding her to see them off. The diplomat was sadly silent as he left the drawing room. He was thinking about all the vanity of his diplomatic career compared with Pierre's happiness. The old general grumbled angrily at his wife when she asked him how his foot was. “Ah, you old fool,” he thought. “Elena Sergeevna, now, she'll be the same beauty even when she's fifty.” “It seems I can congratulate you,” Anna Pavlovna whispered to the princess and kissed her warmly. “If it weren't for my migraine, I would have stayed.” The princess said nothing in reply; she was tormented by envy of her daughter's happiness. While the guests were taking their leave, Pierre remained alone with Hélène for a long time in the small drawing room where they were sitting. Often before, during the last month and a half, he had remained alone with Hélène, but he had never spoken to her of love. Now he felt that this was necessary, but he simply could not resolve upon this last step. He was ashamed; it seemed to him that here, beside Hélène, he was occupying someone else's place. “This happiness is not for you,” some inner voice was telling him. “This happiness is for those who do not have what you have.” But he had to say something, and so he began to speak. He asked her whether she was pleased with tonight's soirée. She answered with her usual simplicity that this name day had been one of the most pleasant for her. Some of the nearest relations were still there. They were sitting in the big drawing room. Prince Vassily walked lazily over to Pierre. Pierre stood up and said it was already late. Prince Vassily gave him a sternly questioning look, as if what he had said was so strange that he could not even hear it well. But then the expression of sternness changed, and Prince Vassily pulled Pierre's arm down, seated him, and smiled gently. “Well, Lelya?” he at once addressed his daughter in that careless tone of habitual tenderness which is adopted by parents who have been affectionate with their children since childhood, but which Prince Vassily only approximated by means of imitating other parents. And again he turned to Pierre. “‘Sergei Kuzmich, from all sides,’” he said, undoing the top button of his waistcoat. Pierre smiled, but it was clear from his smile that he realized it was not the anecdote about Sergei Kuzmich that interested Prince Vassily just then; and Prince Vassily realized that Pierre realized it. Prince Vassily suddenly burbled something and left. To Pierre it 166

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looked as if even Prince Vassily was embarrassed. The sight of this worldly old man's embarrassment touched Pierre; he glanced at Hélène—she, too, seemed embarrassed, and her glance said: “Well, it's your own fault.” “I must inevitably cross it, but I can't, I can't,” thought Pierre, and again he began talking about unrelated things, about Sergei Kuzmich, asking what the anecdote was, because he had not heard it well. Hélène replied with a smile that she did not know either. When Prince Vassily came into the drawing room, the princess was talking softly with an elderly lady about Pierre. “Of course, c'est un parti très brilliant, mais le bonheur, ma chère...”* “Les marriages se font dans les deux,”† the elderly lady replied. Prince Vassily, as if not listening to the ladies, went to the far corner and sat on the sofa. He closed his eyes and seemed to be dozing. His head began to nod, and he woke up. “Aline,” he said to his wife, “allez voir ce qu'ils font.”‡ The princess went to the door, passed by it with a significant, indifferent look, and peeked into the drawing room. Pierre and Hélène were sitting and talking in the same way. “All the same!” she said to her husband. Prince Vassily frowned, his mouth twisted to one side, his cheeks twitched with an unpleasant, coarse expression peculiar to him; he roused himself, got up, threw his head back, and with a resolute stride walked past the ladies into the small drawing room. He strode quickly, joyfully up to Pierre. The prince's expression was so extraordinarily joyful that Pierre stood up, frightened, when he saw him. “Thank God!” he said. “My wife has told me everything.” He embraced Pierre with one arm, his daughter with the other. “Lelya, my friend! I'm very, very glad.” His voice quavered. “I loved your father ... and she will be a good wife to you ... God bless you! ...” He embraced his daughter, then Pierre again, and kissed him with his old man's mouth. Tears actually wet his cheeks. “Princess, come here,” he called. The princess came in and also wept. The elderly lady also dabbed herself with her handkerchief. They kissed Pierre, and he kissed the beautiful Hélène's hand several times. After a while, they were left alone again. “All this had to be so and could not be otherwise,” thought Pierre, “therefore there's no point in asking whether it's good or bad. It's good because it's definite, and there's no more of the old tormenting doubt.” Pierre silently held his fiancee's hand and looked at her beautiful breast rising and falling. “Hélène!” he said aloud and stopped. “Something special is said on these occasions,” he thought, but he simply could not remember precisely what was said on these occasions. He looked at her face- She moved closer to him. Her face blushed. “Oh, take off those ... whatever they're ...” She was pointing to his spectacles. Pierre took off his spectacles, and his eyes, on top of the general strangeness of people's eyes when they take off their spectacles, had a frightened and questioning look. He was about to bend down to her hand and kiss it; but she, with a quick and crude movement of her head, intercepted his lips and brought them together with her own. Her face struck Pierre by its altered, unpleasantly perplexed expression. “It's too late now, it's all over; and anyway I love her,” thought Pierre. “Je vous aime!” he said, having remembered what needed to be said on these occasions; but the words sounded so meager that he felt ashamed of himself. Of course, it's a brilliant match, but happiness, my dear... Marriages are made in heaven. ‡ Aline ... go and see what they're doing. *

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A month and a half later he was married and settled down, as they say, the happy possessor of a beautiful wife and millions of roubles, in the big, newly done-over house of the counts Bezukhov in Petersburg.

III Old Prince Nikolai Andreich Bolkonsky received a letter from Prince Vassily in December 1805, informing him of his arrival together with his son. (“I am going to an inspection, and, of course, for me seventy miles is no detour if I can visit you, my muchesteemed benefactor,” he wrote, “and my Anatole is keeping me company on his way to the army; and I hope you will allow him personally to express the deep respect which he, in imitation of his father, has for you.”) “So Marie doesn't have to be taken out: suitors are coming to us themselves,” the little princess said indiscreetly on hearing of it. Prince Nikolai Andreich winced and said nothing. Two weeks after the receipt of the letter, in the evening, Prince Vassily's people arrived in advance of him, and the next day he himself arrived with his son. Old Bolkonsky had always had a rather low opinion of Prince Vassily's character, and the more so in recent times, when Prince Vassily, under the new reigns of Paul and Alexander, had gone far in rank and honors. Now, from the hints in the letter and from the little princess, he understood what the matter was, and the low opinion of Prince Vassily in Prince Nikolai Andreich's soul turned into a feeling of hostile disdain. He snorted constantly when he spoke of him. On the day of Prince Vassily's arrival, Prince Nikolai Andreich was especially displeased and ill-humored. Whether he was ill-humored because Prince Vassily was coming, or he was especially displeased with Prince Vassily's coming because he was ill-humored, in any case he was ill-humored, and already in the morning Tikhon had advised the architect against going to the prince with a report. “Do you hear how his honor is walking?” Tikhon said, drawing the architect's attention to the sound of the prince's footsteps. “Stepping full on his heels—we know about that...” However, as usual, after eight o'clock the prince went out for a walk in his velvet coat with the sable collar and matching hat. It had snowed the day before. The path on which Prince Nikolai Andreich always walked to the conservatory had been cleared, the traces of the broom could be seen on the swept snow, and a shovel was stuck in one of the loosely heaped-up snowbanks that lined both sides of the path. The prince walked through the conservatory, the servants' quarters and outbuildings, frowning and silent. “But can one get through in a sleigh?” he asked the steward, who accompanied him back to the house, a respectable man, in face and manner resembling his master. “The snow is deep, Your Excellency. Pve already ordered it cleared on the avenue.” The prince inclined his head and went up to the porch. “Thank God,” thought the steward, “the cloud has passed!” “It would have been hard to get through, Your Excellency,” the steward added. “So we've heard, Your Excellency, that a minister is going to be visiting Your Excellency?” The prince turned to the steward and fixed him with a frowning gaze. “What? A minister? What minister? Who ordered it?” he began speaking in his piercingly harsh voice. “You didn't clear it for the princess, my daughter, but for a minister! I have no ministers!” “Your Excellency, I assumed...” “You assumed!” cried the prince, articulating the words still more hastily and incoherently. “You assumed ... Brigands! Knaves! ... I'll teach you to assume.” And, raising his stick, he swung it at Alpatych, and would have hit him, if the steward had not instinctively avoided the blow. “Assumed! ... Knaves! ...” he shouted hurriedly. But even 168

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though Alpatych, frightened by his own boldness in avoiding the blow, approached the prince with his bald head obediently bowed, or perhaps precisely because of it, the prince, while shouting, “Knaves! ... Cover the road!”—did not raise his stick again and ran inside. Before dinner the young princess and Mlle Bourienne, knowing that the prince was ill-humored, Stood waiting for him, Mlle Bourienne with a beaming face which said: “I know nothing, I'm the same as ever,” and Princess Marya, pale, frightened, with lowered eyes. The hardest thing of all for Princess Marya was that she knew that on these occasions she ought to behave like Mlle Bourienne, but could not do it. She imagined: “If I make as if I don't notice, he'll think I have no compassion for him; if I make as if I myself am dull and ill-humored, he'll say (as has happened) that I'm moping,” and so on. The prince looked at his daughter's frightened face and snorted. “Tra ... or a dimwit! ...” he said. “And the other one's not here! They've already spread the gossip,” he thought about the little princess, who was not in the dining room. “And where is the princess?” he asked. “Hiding? ...” “She's not quite well,” Mlle Bourienne replied with a cheerful smile, “she won't be coming out. It's so understandable in her condition.” “Hem! hem! huff! huff!” said the prince and sat down at the table. His plate did not seem clean to him; he pointed to a spot and flung it aside. Tikhon caught it and handed it to the butler. The little princess was not unwell; but her fear of the prince was so insuperable that, on learning that he was ill-humored, she decided not to come out. “I'm afraid for the baby,” she said to Mlle Bourienne, “God knows what fright may do.” In general, the little princess lived at Bald Hills under a constant feeling of rear and antipathy for the old prince, though she was not aware of the antipathy, because the fear was so predominant that she could not feel it. On the prince's side there was also antipathy, but it was smothered by contempt. The princess, having made herself at home at Bald Hills, had especially grown to love Mlle Bourienne, spent whole days with her, invited her to sleep in her room, and often talked with her about her father-in-law, criticizing him. “Il nous arrive du monde, mon prince,” said Mlle Bourienne, unfolding a white napkin with her pink little hands. “Son excellence le prince Kouragine avec son fils, à ce que j'ai * entendu dire?” she said questioningly. “Hm! this excellence is a little brat... I solicited his post for him in the ministry,” the prince said peevishly. “And why the son, I cannot comprehend. Princess Lizaveta Karlovna and Princess Marya may know, but I don't know why they're bringing this son here. I have no need of him.” And he looked at his blushing daughter. “Unwell, are you? Afraid of the minister, as that blockhead Alpatych said today?” “No, mon père.” Unfortunate as Mlle Bourienne's choice of subject had been, she did not stop and babbled about the conservatory, about the beauty of a newly opened flower, and after the soup the prince relented. After dinner he went to see his daughter-in-law. The little princess was sitting at a small table chatting with the maid Masha. She turned pale when she saw her father-in-law. The little princess was much changed. She was rather more bad- than good-looking now. Her cheeks sagged, her lip rose up, her eyes were drawn down. “Yes, a sort of heaviness,” she replied to the prince's question of how she felt. * There are people coming to see us, my prince ... His excellency Prince Kuragin and his son, I've heard?

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“Do you need anything?” “No, merci, mon père.” “Well, all right, all right.” He left and went to the servants' room. Alpatych, his head bowed, was standing in the servants' room. “Has the road been covered?” “It has, Your Excellency; forgive me, for God's sake, it was only my stupidity.” The prince cut him short and laughed his unnatural laugh. “Well, all right, all right.” He offered his hand for Alpatych to kiss and went to his study. In the evening Prince Vassily arrived. He was met on the “avenue” (as they called the front drive) by the coachmen and servants, who with shouts dragged his carts and sleigh to the wing over the road that had been deliberately covered with snow. Prince Vassily and Anatole were given separate rooms. Anatole, having taken off his tunic, sat with arms akimbo before a table, at a corner of which, smiling, he directed fixedly and distractedly his beautiful big eyes. He looked upon his whole life as a ceaseless entertainment, which somebody for some reason had taken it upon himself to arrange for him. Now, too, he looked in this way upon his journey to the wicked old man and the rich, ugly heiress. All this, as he supposed, might turn out very nice and amusing. “And why shouldn't I marry her, if she's very rich? That never hurts,” thought Anatole. He shaved, scented himself with a thoroughness and foppishness that had become habitual to him, and with his innately good-humored and triumphant expression, carrying his handsome head high, went into his father's room. Two valets were bustling around Prince Vassily, dressing him; he himself looked around animatedly and nodded cheerfully to his entering son, as if to say: “Right, that's how I need you to look!” “No, without joking, father, is she very ugly? Eh?” he asked in French, as if continuing a conversation they had had more than once during the journey. “Enough nonsense! Above all, try to be respectful and sensible with the old prince.” “If he starts being abusive, I'll leave,” said Anatole. “I can't stand these old men. Eh?” “Remember, for you everything depends on this.” By that time in the maids' quarters not only was everything known about the arrival of the minister and his son, but their external appearance had already been described in detail. Princess Marya sat alone in her room, vainly trying to overcome her inner excitement. “Why did they write, why did Liza tell me about it all? It just can't be!” she kept saying to herself, looking in the mirror. “How will I come out to the drawing room? Even if I liked him, I couldn't be myself with him now.” The mere thought of her father's gaze terrified her. The little princess and Mlle Bourienne had already received all the necessary information from the maid Masha about what a ruddy, dark-browed, handsome fellow the minister's son was, and how his papa could barely drag his feet up the stairs, while he, like an eagle, ran up after him taking three steps at a time. On receiving this information, the little princess and Mlle Bourienne, their animatedly chattering voices heard already from the corridor, came into Princess Marya's room. “Ils sont arrivés, Marie,* do you know?” said the little princess, waddling in with her belly and lowering herself heavily into an armchair. She was no longer in the smock she had on that morning, but was wearing one of her best gowns; her hair was carefully done, and in her face there was animation, which, *

They've come, Marie.

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however, did not conceal the sagging and deadened contours of her face. In a costume she used to wear in Petersburg society, it was still more noticeable how far she had lost her good looks. Mlle Bourienne's costume had also undergone some sort of inconspicuous improvement, which made her fresh, pretty face still more attractive. “Et bien, et vous restez comme vous êtes, chère princesse?” she said. “On va venir annoncer que ces messieurs sont au salon; il faudra descendre, et vous ne faites pas un petit * brin de toilette!” The little princess got up from the armchair, rang for the maid, and began hurriedly and cheerfully devising a costume for Princess Marya and carrying it out. Princess Marya felt insulted in her sense of her own dignity, because the arrival of the promised suitor excited her, and she was still more insulted that her two friends did not suppose it could be otherwise. To tell them how ashamed she was of herself and of them would mean to betray her excitement; besides, to refuse the dressing-up they suggested would lead to prolonged bantering and insistence. She flushed, her beautiful eyes faded, her face became covered with blotches, and, with that unattractive expression of a victim which most often lingered on her face, she gave herself into the power of Mlle Bourienne and Liza. The two women concerned themselves in all sincerity with making her beautiful. She was so plain that the thought of rivalry with her did not occur to either of them; they therefore undertook to dress her up in all sincerity, with that naive and firm conviction of women that clothes can make a face beautiful. “No, really, ma bonne amie, this dress won't do,” Liza said, looking sideways at the princess from a distance, “have them bring the maroon one you've got there! Really! Why, this may just be the deciding of your fate in life. And this is too light, it won't do, no, it won't do!” What would not do was not the dress, but the face and the whole figure of the princess, but neither Mlle Bourienne nor the little princess sensed that; it seemed to them that if a blue ribbon was put in the hair, done up high, and a blue scarf hung down on the brown dress, and so on, all would be well. They forgot that the frightened face and figure could not be changed, and therefore, no matter how they changed the frame and decoration of that face, the face itself remained pitiful and unattractive. After two or three changes, to which Princess Marya submitted obediently, when her hair had been done up high (a style that totally changed and spoiled her face), and she was wearing the blue scarf and fancy maroon gown, the little princess walked around her twice, straightened a fold here, pulled at the scarf there with her little hand, and, inclining her head, looked now from this side, now from that. “No, it's impossible,” she said resolutely, clasping her hands. “Non, Marie, décidément, ça ne vous va pas. Je vous aime mieux dans votre petite robe grise de tout les jours. Non, de † grâce, faites cela pour moi. Katya,” she said to the maid, “bring the princess her little gray dress, and watch, Mlle Bourienne, how I'm going to arrange it,” she said, with a smiling foretaste of artistic delight. But when Katya brought the dress requested, Princess Marya was still sitting motionless before the mirror, looking at her face, and saw in the mirror that tears had welled up in her eyes and her mouth was trembling, getting ready to weep. “Voyons, chère princesse,” said Mlle Bourienne, “encore un petit effort.”‡ * Well, and are you staying as you are, dear princess? . . . They'll come to announce that these gentlemen are in the drawing room; we'll have to go down, and you're not doing the least bit to dress! † No, Marie, this decidedly doesn't suit you. I like you better in your little gray everyday dress. No, for pity's sake, do it for me. ‡ Come, dear princess . . . one more little effort.

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The little princess, taking the dress from the maid's hands, was approaching Princess Marya. “No, now we'll make it simple and sweet,” she said. Her voice, Mlle Bourienne's, and Katya's, who was laughing about something, blended into a merry warbling which resembled the song of birds. * “Non, laissez-moi,” said the princess. And there was so much seriousness and suffering in her voice that the birds' warbling immediately ceased. They looked at her big, beautiful eyes, filled with tears and thought, looking at them clearly and pleadingly, and understood that to insist would be useless and even cruel. “Au moins changez la coiffure,” said the little princess. “Je vous disais,” she said with reproach, turning to Mlle Bourienne, “Marie a une de ces figures, auxquelles ce genre de coiffure ne vas pas du tout. Mais du tout, du tout. Changez de grâce.”† ‡ “Laissez-moi, laissez-moi, tout ça m'est parfaitement égal,” answered a voice barely holding back its tears. Mlle Bourienne and the little princess had to confess to themselves that as she was Princess Marya looked very bad, worse than ever; but it was already late. She looked at them with that expression they knew, an expression of thought and sadness. This expression did not inspire any fear of Princess Marya in them. (She never inspired that feeling in anyone.) But they knew that when that expression appeared on her face, she became silent and unshakeable in her decisions. § “Vous changerez, n'est-ce pas?” said Liza, and when Princess Marya made no reply, Liza left the room. Princess Marya remained alone. She did not carry out Liza's wish, and not only did not change her hairstyle, but did not even look at herself in the mirror. Strengthlessly lowering her eyes and arms, she sat silently and thought. She imagined a husband, a man, a strong, dominating, and incomprehensibly attractive being, suddenly carrying her off into his own completely different, happy world. Her own baby, like the one she had seen yesterday at her nurse's daughter's—she imagined at her own breast. The husband stands and looks tenderly at her and the baby. “But no, it's impossible, I'm too plain,” she thought. “Please come to tea. The prince will come out shortly,” said the maid's voice outside the door. She roused herself and was horrified at what she had been thinking. And before going downstairs, she stood up, went to her icon room, and, fixing her eyes on the dark lamp-lit face of a large icon of the Savior, stood before it with clasped hands for several minutes. There was tormenting doubt in Princess Marya's soul. Was the joy of love, of earthly love for a man, possible for her? Thinking of marriage, Princess Marya dreamed of family happiness and children, but her chiefest, strongest, and most secret dream was of earthly love. This feeling was all the stronger, the more she tried to conceal it from others and even from herself. “My God,” she said, “how can I suppress these devil's thoughts in my heart? How can I renounce evil imaginings forever, so as peacefully to do Thy will?” And she had barely asked this question, when God answered her in her own heart: “Desire nothing for yourself; do not seek, do not worry, do not envy. The future of people and your own fate must be unknown to you; but live so as to be ready for anything. If God should To, leave me alone. At least change your hairstyle ... I told you ... Marya has one of those faces which this sort of hairstyle does not suit at all. Not at all, not at all. Change it, for pity's sake. ‡ Leave me alone, leave me alone, all this is perfectly the same to me. § You'll change, won't you? *

†

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see fit to test you in the duties of marriage, be ready to fulfill His will. “ With this reassuring thought (but still with a hope that her forbidden earthly dream would be fulfilled), Princess Marya sighed, crossed herself, and went downstairs without thinking about her dress, or her hairstyle, or how she would walk in, or what she would say. What could all that mean in comparison with the predestination of God, without whose will not one hair falls from man's head.

IV When Princess Marya came in, Prince Vassily and his son were already in the drawing room, talking with the little princess and Mlle Bourienne. When she came in with her heavy step, planting her heels, the men and Mlle Bourienne rose, and the little princess, pointing to her, said, “Voilà Marie!” Princess Marya saw them all, and saw them in detail. She saw the face of Prince Vassily, momentarily freezing in a serious expression at the sight of the princess, and the face of the little princess, curiously reading on the faces of the guests the impression Marie made. She also saw Mlle Bourienne with her ribbon, and her beautiful face, and her gaze—lively as never before—directed at him; but she could not see him, she saw only something big, bright, and beautiful, which moved towards her as she came into the room. Prince Vassily went up to her first, and she kissed the bald head that bowed over her hand, and to his words replied that, on the contrary, she remembered him very well. Then Anatole came up to her. She still did not see him. She only felt a gentle hand firmly take hold of her hand, and barely touched the white forehead with beautiful, pomaded blond hair above it. When she looked at him, his beauty struck her. Anatole, the thumb of his right hand placed behind a fastened button of his uniform, chest thrust out, shoulders back, swinging his free leg slightly, and inclining his head a little, gazed silently and cheerfully at the princess, obviously without thinking of her at all. Anatole was not resourceful, not quick and eloquent in conversation, but he had instead a capacity, precious in society, for composure and unalterable assurance. When an insecure man is silent at first acquaintance and shows an awareness of the impropriety of this silence and a wish to find something to say, it comes out badly; but Anatole was silent, swung his leg, and cheerfully observed the princess's hairstyle. It was clear that he could calmly remain silent like that for a very long time. “If anyone feels awkward because of this silence, speak up, but I don't care to,” his look seemed to say. Besides that, in Anatole's behavior with women there was a manner which more than any other awakens women's curiosity, fear, and even love—a manner of contemptuous awareness of his own superiority. As if he were saying to them with his look: “I know you, I know, but why should I bother with you? And you'd be glad if I did!” Perhaps he did not think that when he met women (and it is even probable that he did not, because he generally thought little), but such was his look and manner. The princess felt it, and, as if wishing to show him that she dared not even think of interesting him, turned to the old prince. The conversation was general and lively, thanks to the little princess's voice and the lip with its little mustache which kept rising up over her white teeth. She met Prince Vassily in that jocular mode often made use of by garrulously merry people, which consists in the fact that, between the person thus addressed and oneself, there are supposed to exist some long-established jokes and merry, amusing reminiscences, not known to everyone, when in fact there are no such reminiscences, as there were none between the little princess and Prince Vassily. Prince Vassily readily yielded to this tone; the little princess also involved Anatole, whom she barely knew, in this reminiscence of never-existing funny incidents. Mlle Bourienne also shared in these common reminiscences, and even Princess Marya enjoyed feeling herself drawn into this merry reminiscence.

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“So at least we can make full use of you now, dear Prince,” the little princess said, in French, of course, to Prince Vassily. “It won't be as at our soirées at Annette's, where you always run away. Remember cette chère Annette!” “Ah, but you won't go talking politics with me, like Annette!” “And our little tea table?” “Oh, yes!” “Why did you never come to Annette's?” the little princess asked Anatole. “Ah! I know, I know,” she said, winking, “your brother Ippolit has told me about your affairs. Oh!” she shook her finger at him. “I even know your Parisian pranks!” “But he, Ippolit, didn't he tell you?” said Prince Vassily, turning to his son and seizing the princess by the hand as if she was about to run away and he had barely managed to hold her back, “didn't he tell you how he himself, Ippolit, pined for the dear princess and how she le mettait à la porte? Oh! C'est la perle des femmes, princesse!”* he said, turning to Princess Marya. For her part, Mlle Bourienne did not miss her chance, at the word Paris, to enter as well into the general conversation of reminiscences. She permitted herself to ask whether Anatole had left Paris long ago and how he liked the city. Anatole answered the Frenchwoman quite willingly and, gazing at her with a smile, conversed with her about her fatherland. Seeing the pretty Bourienne, Anatole decided that even here, at Bald Hills, it would not be boring. “Not bad at all!” he thought, looking her over. “She's not bad at all, this demoiselle de compagnie. I hope she'll bring her † along when she marries me,” he thought, “la petite est gentille.” The old prince was dressing unhurriedly in his study, frowning and thinking over what he was going to do. The arrival of these guests angered him. “What are Prince Vassily and his boy to me? Prince Vassily's an empty babbler, so the son must also be a fine one,” he grumbled to himself. He was angry because the arrival of these guests raised in his soul an unresolved, constantly stifled question—a question in regard to which the old prince always deceived himself. The question was whether he could ever resolve to part with Princess Marya and give her to a husband. The prince had never ventured to ask himself this question directly, knowing beforehand that he would answer it in all fairness, and fairness contradicted more than feeling, it contradicted the whole possibility of his life. For Prince Nikolai Andreich, life without Princess Marya, despite the fact that he seemed to value her little, was unthinkable. “And why should she marry?” he thought. “She's sure to be unhappy. Liza's married to Andrei (a better husband would seem hard to find these days), but is she pleased with her fate? And who's going to take her out of love? She's plain, awkward. She'll be taken for her connections, for her wealth. Don't girls live unmarried? And all the happier!” So thought Prince Nikolai Andreich as he dressed, but at the same time the ever-deferred question called for immediate resolution. Prince Vassily had obviously brought his son with the intention of making a proposal, and would probably ask for a direct answer today or tomorrow. His name, his position in society were decent. “Well, I'm not against it,” the prince said to himself, “but he must be worthy of her. We'll see about that.” “We'll see about that,” he said aloud. “We'll see about that.” And with brisk steps, as usual, he entered the drawing room, took everyone in with a quick glance, noticed the little princess's change of dress, the ribbon on Bourienne, and Princess Marya's ugly hairstyle, and the smiles of Bourienne and Anatole, and his daughter's solitude amidst the general conversation. “Got herself up like a fool!” he thought, looking spitefully at his daughter. “No shame! And he doesn't even want to know her!” * †

Showed him the door? Oh! She's a pearl among women, Princess! Lady's companion . . . She's a sweet little thing.

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He went over to Prince Vassily. “Well, greetings, greetings; glad to see you.” “For a dear friend, no detour's too long,” Prince Vassily began, as usual, quickly, selfconfidently, and familiarly. “Here is my second one, I recommend him to your loving kindness.” Prince Nikolai Andreevich looked Anatole over. “A fine boy, a fine boy!” he said. “Well, come and kiss me.” And he offered him his cheek. Anatole kissed the old man, then looked at him curiously and with perfect calm, expecting him to come out with something eccentric, as his father had promised. Prince Nikolai Andreevich sat in his usual place at the end of the sofa, moved a chair for Prince Vassily towards him, pointed to it, and began asking questions about political matters and the latest news. He listened as if with attention to Prince Vassily's account, but kept glancing at Princess Marya. “So they're already writing from Potsdam?” he repeated Prince Vassily's last words, suddenly stood up, and went over to his daughter. “So you've spruced yourself up like that for the guests, eh?” he said. “Fine, very fine. You do your hair up in some new way for the guests, but I say to you in front of the guests that in future you dare not change anything without my permission.” “Mon père, it's my fault,” the little princess intervened, blushing. “That's entirely as you will, ma'am,” said Prince Nikolai Andreevich, bowing and scraping before his daughter-in-law, “but she needn't make herself ugly—she's plain enough as it is.” And he sat down in his place again, paying no further attention to the daughter he had driven to tears. “On the contrary, this hairstyle is very becoming to the princess,” said Prince Vassily. “Well, my good fellow, young prince what's your name?” said Prince Nikolai Andreevich, turning to Anatole, “come here, let's talk, let's get acquainted.” “Now the fun begins,” thought Anatole and, smiling, he took a seat nearer to the old prince. “Well, now, they say, my dear, that you were educated abroad. Not like your father and me, who were taught to read by the beadle. Tell me, my dear, you're now serving in the horse guards?” the old man asked, studying Anatole closely and intently. “No, I've been transferred to the infantry,” replied Anatole, barely able to keep from laughing. “Ah! a good thing. So, my dear, you want to serve your tsar and country? It's wartime. Such a fine fellow must serve, must serve. So, off to the front?” “No, Prince. Our regiment is already on the march. But I'm enlisted—what am I enlisted in, papa?” Anatole turned with a laugh to his father. “Nice service, very nice. What am I enlisted in! Ha, ha, ha!” Prince Nikolai Andreevich laughed. And Anatole laughed still louder. Suddenly Prince Nikolai Andreevich frowned. “Well, go,” he said to Anatole-Anatole, with a smile, went back to the ladies. “So you did educate them abroad, Prince Vassily? Eh?” The old prince turned to Prince Vassily. “I did what I could; and I'll tell you, the education there is much better than ours.” “Yes, everything's different nowadays, everything's the new way. A fine lad, though! A fine lad! Well, come with me.” He took Prince Vassily under the arm and led him to his study. Prince Vassily, finding himself alone with the prince, at once declared to him his wishes and hopes. 175

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“And what do you think,” the old prince said gruffly, “that I'm holding on to her, that I can't part with her? People imagine things!” he pronounced gruffly. “She can marry tomorrow! Only I'll tell you, I'd like to know my son-in-law better. You know my rules: everything's in the open! I'll ask her tomorrow in your presence: if she wants, let him stay a while. Let him stay, and I'll see.” The prince snorted. “Let her marry him, it's all the same to me,” he shrieked in the same shrill voice in which he had shouted on taking leave of his son. “I'll tell you straight out,” said Prince Vassily, in the tone of a cunning man convinced that it is unnecessary to use cunning in view of his interlocutor's per-ceptiveness. “You see through people. Anatole is no genius, but he's an honest, good lad, an excellent son, and one of us.” “Well, well, all right, we'll see.” As always happens with lonely women who have long lived without the society of men, on Anatole's appearance all three women in Prince Nikolai Andreevich's house felt equally that their life had not been life until that moment. The power of thought, feeling, observation instantly increased tenfold in them, as if their life, going on in darkness till then, was suddenly lit up by a new light filled with meaning. Princess Marya did not think at all or even remember about her face and hairstyle. The handsome, open face of the man who would perhaps be her husband absorbed all her attention. To her he seemed kind, brave, resolute, manly, and magnanimous. She was convinced of it. Thousands of fancies of her future family life kept emerging in her imagination. She drove them away and tried to hide them. “But am I not too cold with him?” thought Princess Marya. “I'm trying to restrain myself, because deep in my soul I feel myself already too close to him; but he doesn't know all that I'm thinking about him and may imagine that I find him disagreeable.” And Princess Marya tried and was unable to be cordial with the new guest. * “La pauvre fille! Elle est diablement laide,” thought Anatole. Mlle Bourienne, whom Anatole's arrival had also brought to a high level of excitement, was thinking along different lines. Of course, the beautiful young woman, with no definite position in the world, with no family or friends or even country, did not intend to devote her life to serving Prince Nikolai Andreevich, reading books to him, or being friends with Princess Marya. Mlle Bourienne had long been waiting for a Russian prince who would at once be able to appreciate her superiority over the plain, badly dressed, awkward Russian princesses, would fall in love with her and carry her off; and this Russian prince had finally come. Mlle Bourienne had a story, heard from her aunt, completed by herself, which she liked to tell over in her imagination. It was a story about a seduced girl, whose poor mother, sa pauvre mère, appeared to her in a vision and reproached her for giving herself to a man outside wedlock. Mlle Bourienne often brought herself to tears, telling him, the seducer, this story in her imagination. Now he, this real Russian prince, had come. He will carry her off, then ma pauvre mère will appear, and he will marry her. Thus the whole future story of Mlle Bourienne had taken shape in her head while she was talking with him about Paris. Mlle Bourienne was not guided by calculation (she did not spend a moment thinking of what she was to do), but it had all been long prepared in her and now merely arranged itself around the visiting Anatole, whom she wished and strove to please as much as she could. The little princess, like an old warhorse hearing the sound of trumpets, was preparing herself, unconsciously and forgetting her condition, for her habitual coquettish gallop, without any second thoughts or struggles, but with naïve, light-minded merriment.

*

The poor girl. She's devilishly ugly.

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Although Anatole, in women's company, usually placed himself in the position of a man who is sick of having women running after him, he took a vain pleasure in seeing his effect on these three women. Besides, he was beginning to experience for the pretty and provocative Bourienne that passionate, animal feeling which came over him with extraordinary quickness and urged him towards the most coarse and bold actions. After tea the company went to the sitting room, and the princess was asked to play on the clavichord. Anatole leaned on his elbow before her next to Mlle Bourienne, and his eyes, laughing and joyful, looked at Princess Marya. Princess Marya felt his gaze upon her with tormenting and joyful excitement. Her favorite sonata transported her into her innermost poetic world, and the gaze she felt upon her endowed that world with still greater poetry. Anatole's gaze, though directed at her, referred not to her but to the movements of Mlle Bourienne's little foot, which he touched just then with his own foot under the pianoforte. Mlle Bourienne was also looking at the princess, and in her beautiful eyes there was an expression of frightened joy and hope which was also new for Princess Marya. “How she loves me!” thought Princess Marya. “How happy I am now, and how happy I may be with such a friend and such a husband! Can it be—a husband?” she thought, not daring to look up at his face, still feeling that same gaze directed at her. In the evening, when they all began to disperse after supper, Anatole kissed Princess Marya's hand. She did not know herself how she had boldness enough, but she glanced straight at the beautiful face as it approached her nearsighted eyes. After the princess, he went to kiss Mlle Bourienne's hand (this was improper, but he did everything so confidently and simply), and Mlle Bourienne blushed and glanced fearfully at the princess. “Quelle délicatesse!”* thought the princess. “Can Amélie” (that was Mlle Bourienne's name) “really think I could be jealous of her and not appreciate her pure affection for and devotion to me?” She went over to Mlle Bourienne and kissed her warmly. Anatole went to kiss the little princess's hand. “Non, non, non! Quand votre père m'écrira, que vous vous conduisez bien, je vous donnerai ma main à baiser. Pas avant.”† And, raising her finger and smiling, she left the room.

V They all dispersed and, except for Anatole, who fell asleep as soon as he lay down, it was long before anyone slept that night. “Can it be that he's my husband, precisely this stranger, this handsome, kind man— above all, kind,” thought Princess Marya, and fear, which hardly ever came to her, came over her now. She was afraid to look around; she fancied someone was standing there behind the screen, in the dark corner. And that someone was he—the devil—and he was this man with the white forehead, black eyebrows, and red mouth. She rang for the maid and asked her to sleep in her room. Mlle Bourienne spent a long time that evening walking in the winter garden, vainly waiting for someone and now smiling at someone, now waxing tearful, touched in her imagination by the words of sa pauvre mère reproaching her for her fall. The little princess grumbled at her maid because the bed was not right. It was impossible for her to lie either on her side or on her front. Everything was heavy and awkward. Her belly got in her way. It got in her way more than ever precisely today, because Anatole's presence transported her more vividly into another time, when it was What delicacy! No, no, no. When your father writes me that you are behaving well, I will give you my hand to kiss. Not before. *

†

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not there, and everything was light and merry for her. She sat in an armchair in her bedjacket and nightcap. Katya, sleepy and with her braid tangled, plumped up and turned the heavy featherbed for the third time, muttering something. “I told you, it's all bumps and hollows,” the little princess repeated. “I'd be glad to fall asleep myself, so it's not my fault.” And her voice quavered, like the voice of a child who is about to cry. The old prince was also awake. Tikhon, through his sleep, heard him pacing about angrily and snorting through his nose. It seemed to the old prince that he was offended for his daughter. The offense was most painful because it concerned not himself but another, his daughter, whom he loved more than himself. He told himself that he would think over the whole matter again and find what was fair and ought to be done, but instead he only irritated himself more. “The first comer turns up—and her father and everything's forgotten, and she runs, does her hair up, and wags her tail, and isn't like herself at all! Glad to abandon her father! She knew I'd notice. Snort... snort... snort... As if I don't see that this fool is only looking at Bourrienka (she must be thrown out)! And how can she not have enough pride to realize it! If she has no pride for herself, at least she could have it for me. She must be shown that that blockhead doesn't even give her a thought, but is only looking at Bourienne. She has no pride, but I'll show her that she...” By telling his daughter that she was mistaken, that Anatole intended to pay court to Bourienne, the old prince knew he would rouse Princess Marya's amour propre, and his cause (the wish not to part with his daughter) would be won, and that calmed him down. He called Tikhon and began to undress. “The devil brought them here!” he thought, as Tikhon slipped a nightgown over his dry old man's body, the chest overgrown with gray hair. “I didn't invite them. They've come to upset my life. And there's not much left of it.” “Devil take them!” he said, while the shirt still covered his head. Tikhon knew the prince's habit of sometimes expressing his thoughts aloud, and therefore with an unchanged face met the irately questioning gaze of the face that emerged from the shirt. “Gone to bed?” asked the prince. Tikhon, like all good valets, intinctively knew his master's train of thought. He guessed that he was being asked about Prince Vassily and his son. “They've gone to bed and put out the lights, if you please, Your Excellency.” “No need, no need ...” the prince said quickly and, putting his feet into his slippers and his arms through the sleeves of his dressing gown, he went to the sofa on which he slept. Though nothing had yet been said between Anatole and Mlle Bourienne, they understood each other perfectly in regard to the first part of the romance, before the appearance of the pauvre mère, understood that they had much to tell each other in secret, and therefore in the morning they both sought an occasion to see each other alone. When Princess Marya went at the usual hour to see her father, Mlle Bourienne met with Anatole in the winter garden. Princess Marya came to her father's door that day with particular trepidation. It seemed to her not only that everyone knew her fate was to be decided that day, but that they also knew what she thought about it. She read that expression on the face of Tikhon, and on the face of Prince Vassily's valet, who met her in the corridor while carrying hot water and bowed low to her. The old prince was extremely gentle and painstaking in dealing with his daughter that morning. Princess Marya knew this painstaking expression of her father's very well. It was the expression he had on his face in the moments when his dry hands clenched into 178

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fists from vexation at Princess Marya's not understanding a problem in arithmetic, and, getting up, he would step away from her and in a soft voice repeat the same words several times. He got down to business straightaway and began the conversation in a formal tone. “A proposal has been made to me concerning you, miss,” he said, smiling unnaturally. “You have guessed, I believe,” he went on, “that Prince Vassily came here and brought with him his pupil” (for some reason Prince Nikolai Andreich called Anatole a pupil), “not just for my good pleasure. A proposal was made to me yesterday concerning you. And since you know my rules, I am referring it to you.” “How am I to understand you, mon père?” said the princess, turning pale, then red. “How understand!” her father cried irately. “Prince Vassily finds you to his taste as his daughter-in-law and proposes to you on behalf of his pupil. That's how! How understand?! And I am asking you.” “I don't know, mon père, how you ...” the princess said in a whisper. “I? I? What have I got to do with it? Leave me out of it. It's not I who am getting married. What about you, miss? That's what it's desirable to know.” The princess saw that her father looked unfavorably on this matter, but at the same moment it occurred to her that her fate in life would be decided now or never. She lowered her eyes so as not to see his gaze, under the influence of which she felt she could not think but only obey out of habit, and said: “I desire only one thing—to do your will,” she said, “but if my desire must needs be expressed...” She did not have time to finish. The prince interrupted her. “Splendid!” he cried. “He'll get you and your dowry and incidentally take along Mlle Bourienne. She'll be his wife, and you...” The prince stopped. He noticed the impression these words made on his daughter. She hung her head and was about to cry. “Well, well, I'm joking, I'm joking,” he said. “Remember one thing, Princess: I hold to the rule that a girl has the full right to choose. And I give you freedom. Remember one thing: the happiness of your life depends on your decision. There's no point in talking about me.” “But I don't know ... mon père.” “There's no point in talking! They'll tell him, and he'll marry not only you but anyone else as well; but you're free to choose ... Go to your room, think it over, and in an hour come to me and say in his presence: yes or no. I know you'll be praying. Well, pray then. Only you'd better think. Now go.” “Yes or no, yes or no, yes or no!” he went on shouting, once the princess, reeling as if in a fog, had left his study. Her fate was decided and decided happily. But what her father had said about Mlle Bourienne—that was a terrible hint. Untrue, let us suppose, but all the same it was terrible, she could not help thinking about it. She was walking straight ahead through the winter garden without seeing or hearing anything, when suddenly the familiar whispering of Mlle Bourienne roused her. She looked up and saw Anatole two steps away from her, embracing the Frenchwoman and whispering something to her. Anatole, with a frightful expression on his handsome face, turned to look at Princess Marya, and for the first second did not let go of the waist of Mlle Bourienne, who did not see her. “Who's there? Why? Wait!” Anatole's face seemed to say. Princess Marya was looking at them silently. She could not understand it. Finally Mlle Bourienne gave a little cry and ran away. Anatole, with a merry smile, bowed to Princess Marya, as if inviting her to laugh at this odd incident, and, shrugging his shoulders, went to the door that led to his part of the house. 179

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An hour later Tikhon came to summon Princess Marya. He summoned her to the prince and added that Prince Vassily Sergeich was also there. When Tikhon came, the princess was sitting on the sofa in her room, holding the weeping Mlle Bourienne in her arms. Princess Marya was gently stroking her head. Her beautiful eyes, with all their former calm and luminosity, looked at the pretty face of Mlle Bourienne with tender love and pity. * “Non, princesse, je suis perdue pour toujours dans votre coeur,” said Mlle Bourienne. “Pourquoi? Je vous aime plus que jamais,” said Princess Marya, “et je tâcherai de faire tout ce qui est en mon pouvoir pour votre bonheur.”† “Mais vous me méprisez, vous si pure, vous ne comprendrez jamais cet égarement de la ‡ passion. Ah, ce n'est que ma pauvre mere...” § “Je comprends tout,” Princess Marya answered with a sad smile. “Calm down, my friend. I'll go to my father,” she said and went out. Prince Vassily, one leg crossed high up on the other, a snuffbox in his hand, as if moved to the utmost, and as if regretting and laughing at his sentimentality himself, was sitting with a smile of tender emotion on his face. When Princess Marya came in, he quickly brought a pinch of snuff to his nose. “Ah, ma bonne, ma bonne,” he said, rising and taking her by both hands. He sighed and added: “Le sort de mon fils est en vos mains. Décidez, ma bonne, ma chère, ma douce ** Marie, qui j'ai toujours aimé comme ma fille.” He stepped aside. An actual tear came to his eye. “Snort... snort...” snorted Prince Nikolai Andreich. “The prince, on behalf of his pupil. . . son, is proposing to you. Do you or do you not want to be the wife of Prince Anatole Kuragin? Say yes or no!” he shouted, “and then I retain my right to give my opinion as well. Yes, my opinion and only my opinion,” added Prince Nikolai Andreich, turning to Prince Vassily and replying to his pleading expression. “Yes or no? Well?” “My wish, mon père, is never to leave you, never to separate my life from yours. I do not want to marry,” she said resolutely, her beautiful eyes looking at Prince Vassily and her father. “Rot! Foolishness! Rot, rot, rot!” shouted Prince Nikolai Andreich, frowning, and taking his daughter by the hand, he pulled her to him and did not kiss her, but, leaning his forehead to her forehead, touched it, and squeezed her hand, which he was holding, so hard that she winced and cried out. Prince Vassily rose. “Ma chère, je vous dirai, que c'est un moment que je n'oublierai jamais, jamais; mais, ma bonne, est-ce que vous ne nous donnerez pas un peu d'espérance de toucher ce coeur si †† bon, si généreux? Dites, que peut-être ... L'avenir est si grand. Dites: peut-être.”

No, Princess, I am lost forever in your heart. Why? I love you more than ever ... and I shall try to do everything in my power for your happiness. ‡ But you despise me, you who are so pure, you will never understand this fit of passion. Ah, only my poor mother ... § I understand everything. ** Ah, my good one, my good one ... My son's fate is in your hands. Decide, my good, my dear, my sweet Marie, whom I have always loved like my own daughter. †† My dear, I shall tell you that this is a moment I shall never, never forget; but, my good one, will you not give us a little hope of touching so good, so generous a heart? Say that perhaps . . . The future is so large. Say: perhaps. *

†

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“Prince, what I said is all that is in my heart. I thank you for the honor, but I shall never be your son's wife.” “Well, that ends that, my dear. Very glad to see you, very glad to see you. Go to your room, Princess, go,” said the old prince. “Very, very glad to see you,” he repeated, putting his arm around Prince Vassily. “My calling is different,” Princess Marya thought to herself, “my calling is to be happy with a different happiness, the happiness of love and self-sacrifice. And whatever the cost, I shall make for poor Amélie's happiness. She loves him so passionately. She repents so passionately. I shall do everything to arrange her marriage to him. If he is not rich, I shall give her means. I shall ask Father, and ask Andrei. I shall be so happy when she is his wife. She is so unhappy, a stranger, lonely, helpless! And, my God, how passionately she loves him, if she could so forget herself. I might have done the same! ...” thought Princess Marya.

VI For a long time the Rostovs had no news of Nikolushka; only in midwinter was the count handed a letter addressed in what he recognized as his son's handwriting. On receiving the letter, the count fearfully and hastily, trying not to be noticed, ran on tiptoe to his study, shut himself in, and began to read. Anna Mikhailovna, learning (as she knew everything that went on in the house) of the letter that had come, went into the count's study with soft steps, and found him with the letter in his hands, sobbing and laughing at the same time. Anna Mikhailovna, though her affairs had improved, went on living with the Rostovs. “Mon bon ami?” Anna Mikhailovna uttered with questioning sadness and a readiness for all sorts of sympathy. The count sobbed still louder. “Nikolushka ... a letter ... wounded ... wa ... was ... ma chère... wounded ... my darling boy ... my little countess ... promoted to officer ... thank God ... How shall I tell my little countess? ...” Anna Mikhailovna sat down beside him, took her handkerchief, wiped the tears from his eyes, the letter stained by them, and her own tears, read the letter, reassured the count, and decided that she would prepare the countess over dinner and before tea, and after tea would announce everything, with God's help. All through dinner, Anna Mikhailovna talked about rumors of the war, about Nikolushka; she asked twice when the last letter had come from him, though she already knew, and observed that a letter could very easily come that day. Each time these hints made the countess begin to worry and look anxiously now at the count, now at Anna Mikhailovna, Anna Mikhailovna quite imperceptibly turned the conversation to insignificant subjects. Natasha, the best endowed of all the family with the ability to detect the nuances of intonations, glances, and facial expressions, had pricked up her ears since the beginning of dinner, and knew that there was something between her father and Anna Mikhailovna, and something concerning her brother, and that Anna Mikhailovna was making preparations. In spite of all her boldness (Natasha knew how sensitive her mother was to everything that had to do with news of Nikolushka), she did not venture to ask any questions during dinner, and ate nothing from anxiousness, and fidgeted on her chair, not listening to her governess's reproaches. After dinner, she rushed headlong after Anna Mikhailovna and threw herself on her neck at full speed in the sitting room. “Auntie, darling, tell me, what is it?” “Nothing, my friend.” “No, my darling, my dear heart, my honey, my peach, I won't let go, I know you know something.” Anna Mikhailovna shook her head. 181

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*

“Vous êtes une fine mouche, mon enfant,” she said. “A letter from Nikolenka? Surely!” cried Natasha, reading the affirmative answer in Anna Mikhailovna's face. “But for God's sake be more careful: you know what a shock it may give your maman.” “I will, I will be, but tell me. You won't? Then I'll go and tell her now.” Anna Mikhailovna briefly recounted to Natasha the contents of the letter, on condition that she not tell anyone. “My noble word of honor,” said Natasha, crossing herself, “I won't tell anyone”—and she immediately ran to Sonya. “Nikolenka ... wounded ... a letter ...” she said solemnly and joyfully. “Nicolas!” Sonya merely said, instantly turning pale. Seeing the impression the news of her brother's wound made on Sonya, Natasha felt for the first time the whole grievous side of this news. She rushed to Sonya, embraced her, and wept. “Slightly wounded, but promoted to officer; he's recovered now, he wrote himself,” she said through her tears. “It's obvious all you women are crybabies,” said Petya, pacing the room in big, resolute strides. “I'm very glad, really very glad, that my brother has distinguished himself. You're all blubberers! You understand nothing.” Natasha smiled through her tears. “You haven't read the letter?” asked Sonya. “No, I haven't, but she said it's all over and he's already an officer...” “Thank God,” said Sonya, crossing herself. “But maybe she deceived you? Let's go to maman.” Petya silently paced the room. “If I were in Nikolushka's place, I'd have killed even more of those Frenchmen,” he said, “they're so disgusting! I'd have cut down so many, there'd be a whole pile,” Petya went on. “Shut up, Petya, what a fool you are! ...” “I'm not a fool, the fools are the ones who cry over trifles,” said Petya. “Do you remember him?” Natasha suddenly asked, after a moment's silence. Sonya smiled. “Do I remember Nicolas?” “No, Sonya, do you remember him so as to remember everything, remember really well,” said Natasha, with an assiduous gesture, evidently wishing to give her words the most serious meaning. “I remember Nikolenka, too, I do,” she said. “But not Boris. I don't remember him at all.” “What? You don't remember Boris?” Sonya asked in surprise. “It's not that I don't remember him—I know how he is, but I don't remember him the way I do Nikolenka. I close my eyes, and I remember him, but Boris I don't” (she closed her eyes), “no—nothing!” “Ah, Natasha!” Sonya said rapturously and seriously, without looking at her friend, as if she considered her unworthy of what she intended to say, and as if she was saying it to someone else, with whom it was impossible to joke. “I've fallen in love with your brother once and for all, and whatever happens to him, or to me, I will never stop loving him—all my life.” Natasha looked at Sonya with astonished, curious eyes and said nothing. She felt that what Sonya had said was true, that there was such love as Sonya was talking about; but

*

You're a sharp one, my child.

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Natasha had never experienced anything like that. She believed it could be, but did not understand it. “Will you write to him?” she asked. Sonya fell to thinking. The question of how to write to Nicolas, and whether she should write to him, was a question that tormented her. Now that he was already an officer and a wounded hero, would it be right on her part to remind him of herself and, as it were, of the commitment he had taken upon himself in her regard. “I don't know; I think, since he writes, I'll write, too,” she said, blushing. “And you won't be ashamed to write to him?” Sonya smiled. “No.” “But I'd be ashamed to write to Boris, so I won't.” “Ashamed of what?” “Just so, I don't know. Awkward, ashamed.” “But I know why she'd be ashamed,” said Petya, offended by Natasha's first remark, “because she was in love with that fat one in spectacles” (so Petya described his namesake, the new Count Bezukhov); “now she's in love with this singer” (Petya was referring to Natasha's Italian singing teacher): “so she's ashamed.” “Petya, you're stupid,” said Natasha. “No stupider than you, old girl,” said the nine-year-old Petya, as if he was an old brigadier. The countess had been prepared during dinner by Anna Mikhailovna's hints. Going to her room, she sat in an armchair, not taking her eyes from the miniature portrait of her son on a snuffbox, and tears welled up in her eyes. Anna Mikhailovna came to the countess's room on tiptoe with the letter and paused. “Don't come in,” she said to the old count, who was following her, “later,” she said, and closed the door behind her. The count put his ear to the keyhole and began to listen. At first he heard the sounds of indifferent talk, then only the sound of Anna Mikhailovna's voice making a long speech, then a cry, then silence, then both voices again, speaking together with joyful intonations, and then footsteps, and then Anna Mikhailovna opened the door to him. Anna Mikhailovna's face bore the proud expression of a surgeon who has completed a difficult amputation and admits the public so that it can appreciate his art. “C'est fait!”* she said to the count, pointing with a solemn gesture to the countess, who was holding the snuffbox with the portrait in one hand and the letter in the other, and pressing her lips first to the one, then to the other. Seeing the count, she held her arms out to him, embraced his bald head, and again, over his bald head, looked at the letter and the portrait, and again pushed the bald head slightly away so as to press her lips to them. Vera, Natasha, Sonya, and Petya came into the room, and the reading began. In the letter Niko-lushka gave a brief description of the march, the two battles in which he had taken part, and his promotion to officer, and said that he kissed the hands of maman and papa, asking their blessing, and kissed Vera, Natasha, and Petya. Besides that, he sent his greetings to M. Schelling, and Mme Schoss, and the nanny, and besides that he asked them to kiss his dear Sonya, whom he loved as ever and remembered as ever. Hearing that, Sonya blushed so much that tears came to her eyes. And, unable to bear the gazes turned to her, she rushed to the ballroom, made a run, twirled, and, her dress ballooning, all flushed and smiling, sat down on the floor. The countess was crying. *

It's done!

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“What are you crying for, maman?” said Vera. “From all that he writes, you should rejoice and not cry.” That was perfectly correct, but the count, and the countess, and Natasha— everyone looked at her with reproach. “Who does she take after?” thought the countess. Nikolushka's letter was read a hundred times, and those who were deemed worthy of listening to it had to come to the countess, who never let it out of her hands. Tutors, nannies, Mitenka, some acquaintances came, and the countess reread the letter each time with new delight and each time, through this letter, discovered new virtues in her Nikolushka. How strange, extraordinary, joyful it was that her son—that son who twenty years ago had moved his tiny limbs barely perceptibly inside her, that son over whom she had quarreled with the too-indulgent count, that son who had first learned to say “brush,” and then “mama,” that this son was now there, in a foreign land, in foreign surroundings, a manly warrior, alone, with no help or guidance, and doing there some manly business of his own. All the worldwide, age-old experience showing that children grow in an imperceptible way from the cradle to manhood, did not exist for the countess. Her son's maturing had been at every point as extraordinary for her as if there had not been millions upon millions of men who had matured in just the same way. As it was hard to believe twenty years ago that the little being who lived somewhere under her heart would start crying, and suck her breast, and begin to talk, so now it was hard to believe that this same being could be the strong, brave man, an example to sons and people, that he was now, judging by this letter. “What shtil, how nicely he describes things!” she said, reading the descriptive part of the letter. “And what soul! Nothing about himself ... nothing! About some Denisov, but he himself is probably braver than all of them. He writes nothing about his sufferings. And what heart! It's so like him! And how he remembered everyone! He didn't forget anybody. I always, always said, when he was only so high, I always said...” For more than a week the whole house prepared, wrote drafts, and rewrote clean copies of letters to Nikolushka; under the countess's supervision and the count's solicitude the necessary things and money were gathered to outfit the newly promoted officer and provide for his needs. Anna Mikhailovna, a practical woman, had been able to arrange patronage for herself and her son in the army even for purposes of correspondence. She could send her letters to the grand duke Konstantin Pavlovich, who commanded the guards. The Rostovs assumed that the address Russian Guards Abroad was a perfectly definite address, and that, if the letter reached the grand duke who was in command of the guards, there was no reason to think it would not reach the Pavlogradsky regiment, which should be in the vicinity; and therefore it was decided to send the letters and money through the grand duke's courier to Boris, and Boris would have to deliver them to Nikolushka. There were letters from the old count, from the countess, from Petya, from Vera, from Natasha, and from Sonya, and, finally, 6,000 roubles for outfitting, as well as various things the count sent to his son.

VII On the twelfth of November, Kutuzov's active army, camped near Olmiitz, was preparing to be reviewed the next day by two emperors—Russian and Austrian. The guards, just arrived from Russia, were spending the night some ten miles from Olmiitz, and the next day would come straight to the review, entering the field at Olmiitz by ten o'clock in the morning. Nikolai Rostov received a note from Boris that day, informing him that the Izmailovsky regiment was spending the night ten miles from Olmiitz, and that Boris was waiting for him, so as to give him a letter and money. Rostov especially needed money now, since the troops, having returned from the campaign, were stationed 184

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near Olmiitz, where well-stocked sutlers and Austrian Jews filled the camp, offering all sorts of temptations. The Pavlogradsky hussars had one feast after another, celebrating the rewards they had received for the campaign, and made trips to Olmiitz to visit the newly arrived Karolina the Hungarian, who had opened a tavern there with female waiters. Rostov had recently celebrated his promotion to cornet, had bought Bedouin, Denisov's horse, and was in debt all around to comrades and sutlers. On receiving Boris's note, Rostov rode to Olmiitz with a comrade, had dinner there, drank a bottle of wine, and rode on alone to the guards' camp to look for his childhood friend. Rostov had not yet had time to outfit himself. He was in a much-worn junker's jacket with a soldier's cross, the same sort of riding breeches with a shabby leather seat, and an officer's saber with a sword knot; he was riding a Don horse that he had bought from a Cossack while on campaign; his crumpled hussar's cap was dashingly pushed back and cocked. Riding up to the camp of the Izmailovsky regiment, he was thinking about how he would impress Boris and all his comrades in the guards by his look of a battle-seasoned hussar. The guards had made the whole march as if on a promenade, showing off their cleanness and discipline. The stages were short, their packs were transported in wagons, the Austrian authorities prepared excellent dinners for the officers all along the way. The regiments entered and left towns to music, and for the whole march (something the guards took pride in), on the order of the grand duke, the men had walked in step, the officers on foot at their posts. All during the march, Boris had walked and quartered with Berg, who was now already a company commander. Berg, who had obtained the company during the march, had managed by his efficiency and neatness to earn the confidence of his superiors, and had arranged his financial affairs rather profitably; Boris had made many acquaintances during the march with people who could be useful to him, and, through a letter of recommendation brought to him from Pierre, had become acquainted with Prince Andrei Bolkonsky, through whom he hoped to get a post on the commander in chief's staff. Berg and Boris, cleanly and neatly dressed, having rested after the day's march, were sitting at a round table in the clean apartment assigned to them and playing checkers. Berg was holding a smoking little pipe between his knees. Boris, with his particular neatness, had piled the pieces in a pyramid with his slender white hands, waiting for Berg's move and watching his partner's face, obviously thinking about the game, as he always thought only about what he was engaged in. “Well, how are you going to get out of that?” he said. “We'll try,” replied Berg, touching a piece and taking his hand away again. Just then the door opened. “Ah, here he is at last!” cried Rostov. “And Berg's here, too! Ah, you peti-senfan, allay * embay dormir!” he cried, repeating the words of their nanny, at whom he and Boris used to laugh together. “Good heavens! how you've changed!” Boris rose to meet Rostov, but in rising did not forget to pick up the fallen chessmen and put them in place, and was about to embrace his friend, but Nikolai drew back from him. With that feeling peculiar to youth, which fears beaten paths and wants, not to imitate others, but to express its feelings in a new, personal way, only not in the often feigned way its elders do, Nikolai wanted to do something special on meeting his friend: he wanted somehow to pinch or push Boris, only not to kiss him as everybody does. Boris, on the contrary, calmly and amicably embraced Rostov and kissed him three times. They had not seen each other for nearly half a year; and at their age, when young men take their first steps on life's path, they both found enormous changes in each other, totally new reflections of the society in which they had taken their first steps in life. Both *

Little children, go lie down to sleep! [Transliterated French.]

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had changed greatly since their last meeting, and both wanted the sooner to show each other the changes that had taken place in them. “Ah, you cursed floor-scrubbers! Clean, fresh, as if from a promenade, not like us sinful army folk,” Rostov said, with baritone sounds in his voice and an army manner that were new for Boris, pointing to his mud-splashed breeches. The German landlady stuck her head through the door, hearing Rostov's loud voice. “A pretty little thing, eh?” he said, winking. “Why are you shouting so? You'll frighten them,” said Boris. “I wasn't expecting you today,” he added. “I sent you a note just yesterday through an acquaintance, Kutuzov's adjutant—Bolkonsky. I didn't think he'd deliver it to you so soon ... Well, how are you? Already been under fire?” asked Boris. Rostov, without answering, shook the soldier's Cross of St. George that hung on the cords of his uniform and, pointing to his arm in a sling, looked smiling at Berg. “As you see,” he said. “Well, there, yes, yes!” Boris said, smiling. “And we also had a nice march. You know, the grand duke constantly rode with our regiment, and so we had all the conveniences and advantages. The receptions we had in Poland, the dinners, the balls—I can't tell you! And the grand duke was very gracious to all our officers.” And the two friends began telling each other—the one about his hussar carousing and life at the front, the other about the pleasures and advantages of serving under the command of highly placed persons, and so on. “Oh, you guards!” said Rostov. “But listen, send for some wine.” Boris winced. “If you're sure you want it,” he said. And going to his bed, he took a purse from under the clean pillows and ordered wine brought. “Yes, and I have to give you your money and letter,” he added. Rostov took the letter and, throwing the money on the sofa, leaned both elbows on the table and began to read. He read a few lines and glanced angrily at Berg. Having met his eyes, Rostov covered his face with the letter. “They sent you a decent sum of money, though,” said Berg, looking at the heavy purse pressing down on the sofa. “And we just get by on our pay, Count. I'll tell you about myself...” “The thing is this, Berg, my dear,” said Rostov. “If you received a letter from home and met one of your people, whom you'd like to question about everything, and I happened to be there—I'd leave at once, so as not to interfere with you. Listen, please go away, somewhere, anywhere ... to the devil!” he cried, and taking him by the shoulder at once and looking amiably into his face, obviously trying to soften the rudeness of his words, he added: “You know, don't be angry, my dear, kind fellow, I'm speaking from the heart, as to our old acquaintance.” “Ah, for pity's sake, Count, I understand very well,” said Berg, getting up and speaking to himelf in a guttural voice. “Go across to the landlords: they invited you,” added Boris. Berg put on the cleanest of frock coats, with not a spot or speck on it, fluffed up his whiskers in front of the mirror, as Alexander Pavlovich wore them, and, assuring himself from Rostov's glance that his frock coat had been noticed, left the room with a pleasant smile. “Ah, what a beast I am, though!” said Rostov, reading the letter. “What's wrong?”

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“Ah, what a swine I am, though, that I didn't write even once and frightened them so. Ah, what a swine I am!” he repeated, suddenly blushing. “So send Gavrilo for wine! Let's have a drink!” he said. Among the letters from his family there was also a letter of recommendation to Prince Bagration, which the old countess had obtained through acquaintances, on the advice of Anna Mikhailovna, and sent on to her son, asking him to take it to its destination and make use of it. “What stupidity! As if I need it,” said Rostov, throwing the letter under the table. “Why did you throw it on the floor?” asked Boris. “It's some sort of letter of recommendation, what the devil is a letter to me!” “How do you mean, what the devil is a letter?” said Boris, picking it up and reading the address. “You need this letter very much.” “I don't need anything, and I won't go and be anybody's adjutant.” “Why not?” asked Boris. “It's a lackey's job.” “You're still the same dreamer, I see,” said Boris, shaking his head. ''And you're the same diplomat. Well, but that's not the point... Well, how are you?” asked Rostov. “As you see. So far everything's fine; but I confess, my wish, and it's a great one, is to become an adjutant and not stay at the front.” “Why?” “Because once you've set out on a career in military service, you should try to do all you can to make it a brilliant career.” “Ah, so that's it!” said Rostov, evidently thinking about something else. He looked intently and questioningly into his friend's eyes, evidently searching in vain for the answer to some question. Old Gavrilo brought the wine. “Shouldn't we send for Alphonse Karlych now?” asked Boris. “He'll drink with you. I can't.” “Send for him, send for him! Well, and what's this German like?” Rostov asked with a scornful smile. “He's a very good, honest, and agreeable man,” said Boris. Rostov once again looked intently into Boris's eyes and sighed. Berg returned, and over a bottle of wine the conversation of these three officers became animated. The two guardsmen told Rostov about their march, about how they were honored in Russia, Poland, and abroad. They told about the words and deeds of their commander, the grand duke, anecdotes about his kindness and hot temper. Berg, as usual, kept silent when things did not concern him personally, but on the occasion of anecdotes about the grand duke's hot temper, he told with delight how in Galicia he had managed to talk with the grand duke, when he was making the rounds of the regiments and waxed wroth at the incorrectness of a maneuver. With a pleasant smile on his face, he told how the grand 3 duke, in great wrath, had ridden up to him and shouted: “Arnauti!” (Arnauti was his highness's favorite word when he was wrathful), and summoned the regimental commander. “Would you believe it, Count, I wasn't afraid at all, because I knew I was right. You know, Count, I can say without boasting that I know the regimental orders by heart, and I also know the regulations like the Our Father in Heaven. That's why there's no negligence in my company, Count. So my conscience was at ease. I presented myself.” (Berg stood up and impersonated how he had presented himself with his hand to his visor. Indeed, it would be hard to impersonate any greater deference and self-satisfaction.) “He roasted me,

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as they say, roasted, roasted; roasted me not to the quick, but to death, as they say: 'Arnauti,' and 'devils,' and 'to Siberia,’” Berg said, smiling shrewdly. “I know I'm right, so I say nothing, isn't that the way, Count? 'Are you mute, or what?' he shouts. I still say nothing. And what do you think, Count? The next day there was nothing in the orders; that's what it means not to get flustered! There you are, Count,” said Berg, lighting his pipe and letting out little smoke rings. “Yes, very nice,” said Rostov, smiling. But Boris, noticing that Rostov was preparing to make fun of Berg, artfully diverted the conversation. He asked Rostov to tell them how and where he had received his wound. This pleased Rostov, and he began telling the story, growing more and more animated as it went on. He told them about his Schöngraben action in just the way that those who take part in battles usually tell about them, that is, in the way they would like it to have been, the way they have heard others tell it, the way it could be told more beautifully, but not at all the way it had been. Rostov was a truthful young man, not for anything would he have deliberately told an untruth. He began telling the story with the intention of telling it exactly as it had been, but imperceptibly, involuntarily, and inevitably for himself, he went over into untruth. If he had told the truth to these listeners, who, like himself, had already heard accounts of attacks numerous times and had formed for themselves a definite notion of what an attack was, and were expecting exactly the same sort of account—they either would not have believed him or, worse still, would have thought it was Rostov's own fault that what usually happens in stories of cavalry attacks had not happened with him. He could not simply tell them that they all set out at a trot, he fell off his horse, dislocated his arm, and ran to the woods as fast as he could to escape a Frenchman. Besides, in order to tell everything as it had been, one would have to make an effort with oneself so as to tell only what had been. To tell the truth is very difficult, and young men are rarely capable of it. They were expecting an account of how he got all fired up, forgetting himself, how he flew like a storm at the square; how he cut his way into it, hacking right and left; how his saber tasted flesh, how he fell exhausted, and so on. And he told them all that. In the middle of his story, just as he was saying: “You can't imagine what a strange feeling of fury one experiences during an attack,” Prince Andrei Bolkonsky, whom Boris was expecting, came in. Prince Andrei, who liked to patronize young men, who was flattered to be turned to for a favor, and was well-disposed towards Boris, who had managed to please him the day before, wished to fulfill the young man's wish. Sent by Kutuzov with papers for the grand duke, he stopped to see the young man, hoping to find him alone. Coming into the room and seeing a frontline hussar telling about his military adventures (the sort of people Prince Andrei could not stand), he smiled affectionately to Boris, wmced, narrowed his eyes at Rostov, and, bowing slightly, sat down wearily and lazily on the sofa. He was not pleased to have landed among bad company. Rostov blushed, understanding that. But it was all the same to him: the man was an outsider. But, glancing at Boris, he saw that he, too, seemed ashamed of the frontline hussar. In spite of Prince Andrei's unpleasant, mocking tone, in spite of the general disdain which Rostov, from his fighting army point of view, had for all these staff adjutants, to whom the newcomer obviously belonged, Rostov felt embarrassed, turned red, and fell silent. Boris asked what was the news at the staff and what, without being indiscreet, was rumored about our dispositions. “They'll probably advance,” Bolkonsky replied, clearly not wishing to say more in front of strangers. Berg used the opportunity to ask with particular courtesy whether, as rumor had it, company commanders were now to draw a double allotment for forage. To which Prince Andrei replied with a smile that he was unable to opine about such important government instructions, and Berg laughed joyfully. 188

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“About your affair,” Prince Andrei turned to Boris again, “we'll speak later,” and he glanced at Rostov. “Come to me after the review, we'll do all that's possible.” And, glancing around the room, he turned to Rostov, whose state of uncontrollable childish embarrassment, turning into spite, he did not deign to notice, and said: “It seems you were telling about the Schöngraben action? Were you there?” “I was there,” Rostov said spitefully, as if wishing to insult the adjutant by it. Bolkonsky noticed the hussar's state and found it amusing. He gave a slightly contemptuous smile. “Yes! many stories are told now about that action.” “Yes, stories!” Rostov began speaking loudly, glancing now at Boris, now at Bolkonsky, with eyes suddenly grown furious. “Yes, many stories are told, but our stories—the stories of those who were there, right under enemy fire—our Stories have weight, not the stories of those fellows on the staff, who get rewards for doing nothing.” “To whom you suppose that I belong?” Prince Andrei said calmly and with an especially pleasant smile. A strange feeling of spite and along with that of respect for the calmness of this figure came together at that moment in Rostov's soul. “I'm not talking about you,” he said, “I don't know you, and, I confess, I don't wish to. I'm talking about the staff in general.” “And I will tell you this,” Prince Andrei interrupted him with calm power in his voice. “You want to insult me, and I am ready to agree with you that it is very easy to do so, if you lack sufficient respect for yourself; but you must agree that the time and place have been rather poorly chosen for that. One of these days we'll all take part in a big, more serious duel, and besides that, Drubetskoy, who says he's your old friend, is not at all to blame for the fact that my physiognomy has the misfortune not to please you. However,” he said, getting up, “you know my name and where to find me; but don't forget,” he added, “that I consider neither myself nor you insulted in the least, and my advice, as an older man, is to let this matter go without consequences. So I'll be waiting for you on Friday after the review, Drubetskoy. Good-bye,” Prince Andrei concluded and left, after bowing to them both. Rostov remembered what reply he should have given only when the man was already gone. And he was the more angry because he had forgotten to say it. Rostov ordered his horse brought at once, and having drily